THE 
DAUGHTER,  OF 

A.      R,  E/  B  E  L    £; ;  ;<  ui 

5    ->-  -fli 

G.  VERB 
TVLBR^ 


l~ 


THE  DAUGHTER 
OF  A  REBEL 


A  NOVEL 


BY 
G.  VERB  TYLER 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913 
BY  DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 

THE  SWEETEST  VIRGINIAN 
OF  THEM  ALL 


2138502 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  1 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  GIRL I 

II    REBELLION 6 

III  OPPOSITION ii 

IV  VANISHING  HOMESTEADS 24 

V    DREAMS  UNVEILED 27 

VI    THE   LOVER'S   APPEAL 33 

VII    A    PRODUCT   OF   WAR 39 

VIII    THE  MOTHER 46 

IX    THE  GRIM  VISITOR 56 

X    THE  MASTER  IN  THE  HOUSE 59 

XI    CONFLICTING    EMOTIONS 63 

XII     NEGRO  HEROISM 68 

XIII  THE   HISTORIC  JAMES 80 

XIV  DISINTEGRATION 85 

XV    THE  BATTLE 88 

XVI    THE  FLOWER  GIRL 101 

XVII    THE   CURB   BIT 107 

XVIII    RESTING  ON  CONVENTIONS 113 

XIX    A   LIFE   AT   STAKE 119 

XX    THE  FREEDMAN'S   INHERITANCE 124 

XXI    LYNCH  LAW 131 

XXII    HANDS  ON  THE  BIBLE 135 

XXIII  A  SACRIFICE  REVEALED 138 

XXIV  STRUGGLES  IN  NEW  CONDITIONS 142 

XXV    A  MOCK  CEREMONY 148 

XXVI    DESPERATE   CHIVALRY 152 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

XXVII    THE  LIGHTNING  STRIKES 162 

XXVIII  BEYOND  His  TENSION 167 

XXIX  VISIONS  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW 174 

BOOK  II 

I  A  NIGHT  ON  WHEELS 187 

II  THE   LOST   SHEEP 193 

III  DANGERS  OF  FREEDOM 198 

IV  THE  SKY-LIGHT  ROOM 203 

V  BOARDING  HOUSE  LIFE 209 

VI    WET  BLANKETS 216 

VII    THE  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR 225 

VIII    THE    SOUTHERN    ONLOOKER 232 

IX    SENTENCED  TO  CHAINS 236 

X    A    SILENT    PROTECTOR 244 

XI    THE  COLONEL 246 

XII    FAILURE 252 

XIII  HALLUCINATIONS 256 

XIV  THE  PLEA 264 

XV    THE   HELPING   HAND 266 

XVI    THE  DREAM  REALIZED 272 

XVII    A  CLASHING  OF  WILLS 277 

XVIII    TEMPTATION 285 

BOOK  III 

I  VICTORY    PROCLAIMED 297 

II  SILENT  REMINDERS 303 

III  INTO  THE   FOLD 311 

IV  LOVE 319 


BOOK  I 


The  Daughter  of  a  Rebel 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   GIRL 

ON  the  third  day  of  April  in  the  year  1886,  a  girl 
was  seated  at  an  old  rickety  table  in  her  bare  little 
room,  writing.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes 
were  bright.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  much  in 
earnest. 

The  room  was  on  the  top  floor  of  a  small  brick 
house,  and  there  were  no  comforts  in  it.  The  single 
bed  was  hard  and  uninviting.  The  door  of  the  wash- 
stand  was  broken,  as  was  also  the  spout  of  the  pitcher. 
There  were  dull-red,  well-worn  shades  over  the  win- 
dows, but  no  curtains.  Save  a  narrow  strip  by  the  side 
of  the  bed,  the  floor  was  carpetless.  The  mirror,  that 
reflected  the  girl  as  she  sat  writing,  was  blurred  and 
cracked.  A  Bible,  an  old  album,  and  a  vase  con- 
taining some  pampas-grass,  on  another  table,  were  the 
only  ornaments  of  the  room.  There  was  a  small 
rocker  with  an  improvised  seat  of  the  selvages  of  flan- 
nel, the  original  one  having  long  since  worn  away. 
A  cheap  clock  ticked  loudly  in  the  center  of  a  tall, 
black-painted  mantel-piece.  The  occupant  was  oblivi- 
ous to  her  surroundings. 

Page  Warwick  was  a  product  of  the  Civil  War. 
Born  when  Virginia  had  scarcely  caught  her  breath 
from  flash  of  gun  and  roar  of  cannon,  she  seemed  one 
of  their  sparks  that  would  not  expire. 

A  child  of  rare  emotional  nature,  possessed  of  highly 


2  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

imaginative  perceptions,  she  had  fed  upon  tales  of  war, 
its  horror  and  despair,  until  these  things  and  all  they 
suggested  had  become  a  part  of  her. 

She  had  sat  on  the  knees  of  ex-soldiers  and  listened ; 
she  had  sat  at  the  feet  of  her  Mammy  and  listened ;  she 
had  sat  in  the  pews  of  the  churches  and  listened; 
she  had  sat  at  the  firesides  or  on  the  porches  of  devas- 
tated homes  and  listened.  When  she  grew1  older  she 
visited  the  places  formerly  used  as  hospitals  for  the 
wounded  and  dying.  She  went  to  the  graves  of  sol- 
diers, in  the  soldiers'  burying  ground,  and  there  with 
the  little  wooden  headpieces  staring  at  her  in  straight 
lines,  lived  over  the  tragic  death  of  each  one,  as  she 
read  the  name,  and  when  she  came  to  one  who  was 
nameless,  she  would  feel  her  heart  break. 

She  was  distinctly  a  product  of  the  Civil  War.  To 
her  it  represented  a  tragedy  such  as  had  never  been 
enacted  upon  the  earth.  She  saw  no  glory  in  it.  The 
picture  was  grewsome,  hideous,  with  monuments  of 
despair  on  its  pallid  surface.  All  the  music  was  fu- 
neral drums.  All  the  participants,  martyrs.  At  night 
when  she  would  close  her  eyes  to  sleep  they  marched 
single  file  before  her,  weary  and  blood-stained,  or  she 
saw  them  en  masse  on  the  fields  beneath  the  burning 
sun  or  the  cold  moon,  and  sometimes  she  cried  out. 
When  slavery  was  spoken  of  as  a  crime  she  thought 
of  this  crime,  and  a  half  mad  laugh  would  break  from 
her.  When  anyone  spoke  of  the  war  being  over,  she 
sneered  and  told  of  the  wounded  in  heart  who  still 
lived,  of  the  half  dead  and  alive  victims  as  much  a  part 
of  it  as  the  grave  is  of  death. 

She  felt  so  intensely  that  she  had  never  stopped  to 
think  or  attempt  to  reason.  The  impressions  of  her 
childhood  still  controlled  her.  The  name  of  Grant  was 


THE  GIRL  3 

associated  in  her  mind  with  bloodshed.  "  Beast  "  But- 
ler was  to  her  a  beast  indeed,  and  she  never  thought  of 
him,  except  as  she  had  seen  him  cartooned  with  horns. 
All  this  was  real  and  vital  to  her,  and  the  fears  of  her 
childhood  continued  to  dominate  her.  "  The  Yankees 
are  coming  "  recalled  to  her  the  absolutely  docile  and 
horror-struck  obedience  that  the  sentence  filled  her 
with,  when  Mammy  wanted  to  "  scare  "  her  to  bed  or 
good  behavior. 

The  house  in  which  dwelt  this  imaginative  emotional 
young  girl  was  the  very  poorest  of  her  late  father's 
possessions.  It  was  situated  in  an  obscure  street.  It 
had  always  been  occupied  by  poor  people.  Sometimes 
they  paid  rent,  sometimes  they  didn't.  Her  father 
never  thought  much  about  it.  It  was  unimportant  to 
him;  it  was  home  to  her.  The  rent  was  paid  now, 
it  had  to  be  because  the  pitiful  sum  was  her  only  means 
of  support.  The  people  she  rented  it  to  got  it  cheaper 
by  allowing  her  to  keep  a  room  on  the  top  floor.  She 
tried  eating  with  them  as  another  mutual  benefit,  but 
there  were  five  children,  molasses  at  every  meal,  and 
the  man  ate  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  It  embarrassed  them 
and  it  was  impossible  to  her. 

It  was  her  tenant,  Mrs.  Bartlett  herself,  who  had  ar- 
ranged for  her  meals  across  the  street  with  an  old  lady, 
a  Mrs.  Stebbins,  who  took  boarders.  Mrs.  Bartlett, 
a  young  thing  of  twenty-seven,  with  five  children  and 
bowed  down  by  poverty  like  the  rest,  did  this  out  of 
kindness.  She  was  always  kind  to  Page.  She  never 
failed  to  tell  her  to  call  on  her  if  she  was  ever  sick. 
Page  often  wondered  how  often  Mrs.  Bartlett  had 
told  her  this.  But  she  was  never  sick,  she  was  always 
well,  and  good,  as  she  sometimes  said  disconsolately, 
for  a  long  life.  Yes,  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  very  good, 


4  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

goodness  breathed  forth  from  her  whole  hard-worked 
little  body. 

Page  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes  and  fell  to  think- 
ing of  her.  How  strange  it  all  was.  She  thought  of 
the  house,  the  stiff,  little  parlor  with  a  chair  or  two; 
the  etagere,  the  antiquated  piano,  the  red  plush  album, 
and  herself  up  there  above  it  all.  As  she  thought,  a 
child's  voice  came  up  to  her  in  a  whining  wail.  It 
was  Sadie  May's  voice.  Sadie  May,  the  only  girl  and 
the  youngest  child,  was  the  idol  of  the  house.  She  was 
not  a  pretty  child,  and  she  looked  stupid,  like  a  little 
doll  dressed  up,  but  much  of  the  means  of  the  family 
were  expended  upon  Sadie  May,  and  the  mother  told 
Page  one  day  that  if  that  child  were  to  die  it  would  be 
her  death  as  sure  as  there  was  a  God  in  heaven.  Page 
knew  that  she  meant  it. 

At  times  this  home  with  Sadie  May  and  all  the  rest 
sickened  her,  and  she  would  put  on  her  hat  and  walk 
by  an  old  house,  the  real  home,  where  they  all  lived 
in  the  days  before  she  was  born,  and  gave  dinners  and 
balls  and  parties  and  danced  all  night,  and  were  happy. 
It  seemed  to  Page,  when  she  heard  those  days  recalled, 
that  there  never  could  have  been  such  happiness  any- 
where in  all  the  world  since  it  was  created.  It  was 
turned,  the  grand  old  house,  into  a  hospital  now;  it 
had  met  a  fate  equal  to  that  of  the  descendants  of  those 
who  had  lived  in  it,  and  yet  she  loved  to  go  there  and 
look  at  it ;  the  sad  staring  windows  seemed  to  gaze  at 
her  with  pathetic  recognition.  There  was  a  rose-bush 
in  the  yard  that  her  grandmother  had  planted  with 
her  own  hands.  The  matron  always  sent  her  a  bunch 
of  the  first  blooms.  Her  father's  name  was  cut  in 
one  of  the  pillars  of  the  porch.  He  had  played  on  that 
porch  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  Page  had  never  played 


THE  GIRL  5 

there  —  it  was  gone,  gone  away  from  them  before  she 
could  remember.  She  had  never  known  it  except  as  a 
hospital,  but  she  went  there  very,  very  often.  She 
loved  to  see  it  when  the  flowers  were  blooming,  or 
when  the  moon  was  shedding  its  silver  light  upon  it 
tenderly,  lovingly,  just  as  it  used  to.  Sometimes  she 
thought  she  could  see  her  grandmother  standing  by 
the  old  rose-bush  guarding  it,  and  she  really  believed 
if  it  were  cut  down  for  some  practical  purpose,  a 
thunderbolt  from  heaven  would  be  directed  to  the 
spot. 


CHAPTER  II 

REBELLION 

ON  this  particular  morning,  this  third  day  of  April, 
1886,  she  was  particularly  depressed.  The  pitiful  sum 
due  weekly  for  her  meals,  which  she  took  across  the 
way,  had  not  been  paid,  and  she  had  eaten  little.  She 
was  half  hungry.  Her  thoughts  were  tragic,  her  mood 
savage,  yet  gentle,  and  she  was  filled  with  exaggerated 
self-pity  and  pity  for  those  like  her. 

In  these  moods  she  always  wrote,  dipping  the  pen  in 
her  own  heart's  blood,  believing  in  a  self-imposed  duty 
to  express  vital  facts  that  every  one  should  know  about. 
Through  blinding  tears  that  dripped  upon  the  paper 
in  front  of  her,  she  continued  to  pour  her  passionate 
thoughts,  occasionally  giving  vent  to  a  sob,  occasion- 
ally repressing  one,  the  words  flowing  from  her  pen, 
even  as  the  tears  flowed  from  her  eyes. 

Two  years  before  she  had  written  a  little  story  that 
included  a  description  of  a  negro  river-baptizing,  and 
it  had  been  accepted  for  publication  by  a  first-class 
magazine. 

The  acceptance  had  been  accompanied  by  a  flattering 
letter  from  the  editor  requesting  her  to  submit  other 
contributions. 

This  incident  had  revolutionized  her  entire  existence. 
Her  joy  converted  her  into  a  creature  with  a  brain  on 
fire  and  a  pen  always  in  her  hand.  From  that  day  she 
wrote  without  ceasing.  She  wrote  of  everything,  the 
war,  before  the  war,  after  the  war,  the  soldiers,  her 

6 


REBELLION  7 

relatives,  her  friends,  the  negroes  and  of  inanimate 
things  as  well.  When  her  only  pair  of  shoes  wore  out, 
she  wrote  their  history  and  pressed  her  lips  to  them 
that  they  had  served  her  for  inspiration.  She  flashed 
her  brain  upon  common  objects,  converting  everything 
she  saw  into  a  wonder  for  her  pen  to  describe.  And 
every  single  thing,  after  the  first  story  that  she  wrote, 
came  back  to  her. 

The  effect  upon  her  of  continuous  effort  and  con- 
tinuous disappointment  was  at  times  maddening.  She 
grew  sensitive  and  concealed  the  fact  that  she  was 
continuing  to  write,  but  she  never  ceased.  She  watched 
for  the  postman,  met  him  at  the  door,  and  when  he 
handed  her  the  rejected  manuscript,  she  would  turn 
giddy  and  reach  her  room  in  a  half-conscious  condi- 
tion. Every  time  this  occurred  it  caused  her  momen- 
tary loss  of  courage  and  self-confidence. 

Then  it  was  that  she  would  lock  herself  in  her  room, 
open  her  trunk,  take  out  her  one  printed  story,  with 
the  acceptance  slip  pinned  to  it,  read  both  over  again 
to  convince  herself  that  her  effort  was  not  a  mad 
dream. 

Not  once  did  this  little  experience  fail  to  kindle 
within  her  a  new  excitement  and  renewed  determina- 
tion ;  not  once  did  it  fail  to  repeat  its  message  that  she 
could  become  an  author.  Did  not  the  printed  words 
and  the  letter  from  the  editor  prove  it?  She  would 
take  out  the  editor's  letter,  that  was  safely  stored  away 
in  a  little  pearl  box  that  had  belonged  to  her  mother, 
and  read  it  —  the  words  she  knew  by  heart  —  all  over 
again. 

Finally  she  laid  down  her  pen,  raised  her  head  half 
defiantly  and  faced  herself  in  the  old  cracked  mirror 
opposite. 


8  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

The  vision  that  met  her  gaze  arrested  her  attention 
and  diverted  it  from  her  theme  to  herself.  She  cen- 
tered upon  the  reflection,  suddenly  fascinated  by  her 
own  charms.  She  saw,  as  through  a  mist,  a  fair  girl 
with  a  lovely  patrician  face  crowned  in  pale  chestnut, 
gold-tinted  hair,  beneath  which  glowed,  sullen  and  ex- 
cited, a  pair  of  exquisitely  expressive  gray  eyes.  She 
saw  a  beautiful  mouth,  slightly  compressed,  and  she 
knew  that  behind  the  crimson  lips  were  two  rows  of 
even  white  teeth  firmly  set.  Beneath  the  compressed 
and  firmly  set  teeth  she  deliberately  noted  the  sensitive 
chin,  tremulous,  yet  determined,  and  the  full  passionate 
throat,  around  which  was  a  faded  ribbon  that  had 
been  washed,  and  beneath  that  a  calico  waist,  also 
faded.  Her  face  paled  and  a  half-bitter  smile  parted 
the  sullen  mouth. 

"  That  is  I,"  she  said  aloud,  "  that  poverty-stricken 
creature  is  I,  Page  Warwick !  " 

Suddenly  there  came  to  her,  like  an  unexpected 
flash  of  lightning  in  a  clear  sky,  a  thought  that  struck 
and  startled  her.  This  thought  had  long  hovered 
about  her  brain,  but  had  never  dared  enter  it  before. 
It  frightened  her.  If  she  could  go  away,  free  herself 
of  old  conditions,  be  where  she  would  not  be  dominated 
by  the  opinions  of  others,  where  she  could  think  more 
freely,  unhampered  by  the  vigilant  surveillance  of  her 
elders  and  all  the  conventions  that  made  up  their  and 
her  life,  she  could  become  an  author  in  reality  and  in- 
dependent. 

It  was  a  very  bold  thought,  her  teaching  having  been 
that  of  any  kind  of  independent  existence  on  the  part 
of  woman,  any  effort  except  attention  to  her  household 
duties  was  "  unladylike." 

She  was  a  child  of  the  old  South  that  demanded  of 


REBELLION  9 

its  women  acquiescence  in  and  obedience  to  ordained 
laws,  no  matter  what  they  were.  Action  was  for  men, 
not  women.  She  tried  to  think  of  one  woman  who 
had  rebelled  against  conditions  and  taken  an  independ- 
ent step  and  she  could  not  recall  one.  Yet,  the 
thought  had  occurred  to  her,  not  only  had  it  occurred, 
but  it  was  taking  possession  of  her.  She  tried  to  ef- 
face it  by  pushing  back  her  hair  and  standing  up.  It 
remained  and  she  took  her  seat  again  but  with  a  feel- 
ing of  helplessness.  She  was  bound  hand  and  foot, 
and  she  knew  it,  a  slave  to  the  ideas  of  others ;  and  to 
all  that  had  been  established  by  her  forefathers  since 
Virginia  had  its  birth.  Two  conflicting  elements  be- 
gan to  contend  in  her,  pulling  her  different  ways  like 
wild  horses.  As  this  thought  of  change  —  of  break- 
ing way,  pressed  closer  to  her  heart,  her  brain  refused 
it,  shrieking  at  her  old  thoughts,  old  laws.  She  saw 
this  fierce  battle  and  her  excitement  increased,  till  her 
flushed  face  paled.  Her  heart  fiercely  demanding 
change,  at  terrific  odds  with  the  dictates  of  her  brain, 
was  not  yet  sufficiently  liberated  to  join  in  her 
rebellion.  And  she  knew  that  her  heart  must  fight  its 
battle  with  terrific  odds  against  her  while  her  brain 
would  daily  be  reinforced  by  an  army  that  was  legion. 
Her  sympathies  went  out  to  her  heart  and  she  almost 
swore  aloud  allegiance  to  it,  but  was  again  attacked 
by  fright. 

She  looked  about  her,  terrified  at  familiar  inanimate 
objects  that  might  have  detected  her  impulse  —  in  the 
corners,  under  the  bed,  and  through  the  open  door, 
for  imaginary  eyes  and  ears  that  might  be  upon  her, 
and  all  the  while  the  desire  was  taking  a  fixed  form. 
She  tried  to  fight  it  again  and  held  her  hands  hard 
pressed  to  the  sides  of  her  chair  to  keep  herself  steady, 


io         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

but  she  knew  that  she  had  not  succeeded  —  did  not 
want  to  succeed. 

At  last  there  came  over  her  a  sense  of  guilt ;  it  was 
the  same  feeling  that  takes  possession  of  the  soldier 
in  battle  when,  overcome  by  the  horrors  of  the  situa- 
tion, he  contemplates  becoming  a  deserter. 


CHAPTER  III  .    < 

OPPOSITION 

SUDDENLY  Page  remembered  that  it  was  Wednes- 
day. 

Every  Wednesday,  rain  or  shine,  a  visit  of  respect 
was  paid  to  her  Aunt  Constance.  Together  they 
looked  over  her  bureau  drawers,  straightened  them  out, 
and  then  sat  together  chatting. 

Page  loved  her  Aunt  Constance  with  a  deep  and 
abiding  love.  She  had  been  a  second  mother  to  her, 
but  the  laws  of  their  existence  and  the  regularity  with 
which  they  were  enforced,  wore  upon  her.  For  the 
first  time,  however,  she  dreaded  this  visit.  How  to 
confess  to  Aunt  Constance  —  how  to  leave  Aunt  Con- 
stance! These  two  thoughts  confronted  her  like  pis- 
tols leveled  at  her. 

She  knew  that  she  was  the  light  of  her  aunt's  life, 
the  one  bright  light  that  had  atoned  for  a  lonely, 
blighted  existence. 

She  found  her  seated  by  the  window,  with  hen 
spectacles  on,  trying  to  make  a  wrapper  out  of  an  old 
India  shawl. 

The  room,  unlike  Page's,  was  large  and  deep,  and, 
as  she  did  light  housekeeping  —  light  indeed  it  was  — 
a  tall  screen  hid  the  washstand  and  little  kitchen  ar- 
rangements. The  family  portraits,  that  she  had  clung 
to  through  thick  and  thin,  lined  the  high  walls,  and 
some  of  them  were  very  beautiful.  Here  she  sat  day 

n 


12 

after  day  thinking  of  the  past  and  communing  with  the 
dead  and  gone.  Her  bed  and  bureau  and  wardrobe 
were  preserved,  too,  out  of  the  wreck  of  her  home,  and 
as  though  God  willed  it  so,  this  distinguished  lady  had 
a  distinguished  environment. 

Imperiousness  and  reserve  were  as  natural  to  her  as 
though  some  secret  authority  had  been  bestowed  upon 
her  at  birth.  No  matter  what  her  circumstances  were, 
and  they  had  been  lowly  and  trying,  it  was  as  impos- 
sible for  her  to  appear  ordinary  as  for  the  lightning- 
stripped  oak  to  appear  weak.  As  a  child,  Page  had 
stood  in  awe  of  this  lovely,  dignified  aunt,  but  all  that 
had  now  passed  away  and  between  the  two  was  perfect 
sympathy  and  understanding. 

At  present,  Aunt  Constance  was  doing  the  darning 
and  mending  for  a  family  of  eight  in  exchange  for  her 
room  and  for  her  breakfast,  the  only  regular  meal  she 
had,  she  washed  the  tea  things.  She  was  a  pathetic 
figure,  this  impoverished  maiden  lady,  who  had  suf- 
fered in  proud  silence  every  day  since  the  war.  It 
was  not  the  suffering,  but  the  courage  that  made  her 
pathetic.  She  was  but  one  of  many.  It  was  hard  on 
the  younger  ones  like  Page,  who  had  to  sit  by  and  see 
such  as  she,  their  old  darlings,  in  want ;  see  them  with- 
out proper  clothing,  without  proper  food,  and  with 
none  of  the  little  elegancies  their  hearts  craved. 

"  Page,"  she  said,  when  they  had  had  a  cup  of  tea 
and  some  crackers,  and  the  two,  neither  very  skillfully, 
were  at  work  on  the  old  wrapper,  "  is  what  I  have 
heard  true?  " 

"  What  is  that,  Aunt  Constance  ?  " 

"  That  you  are  still  shutting  yourself  up  in  your 
room  writing?  " 

"  It  is  true,  Aunt  Constance !  " 


OPPOSITION  13 

"  What  are  you  writing  about,  my  darling  ?  " 

"  I'm  writing  a  tragedy,  Aunt  Constance  —  I'm 
writing  a  novel  of  the  war !  " 

Aunt  Constance's  gentle  face  clouded  a  moment. 
"  The  war,  Page,"  she  said,  "  the  real  war  will  never 
get  into  the  books.  Mortal  pen  could  never  handle  it, 
and  you,  what  do  you  know  about  the  war,  my  dear! 
You  weren't  born  until  the  war  was  over !  " 

"  I  know  the  results  of  it,"  said  Page  gravely.  "  I 
know  what  I  see  to-day !  " 

"  My  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "  thank  God  the  war  is 
over;  let  its  horrors  be  buried." 

"  Aunt  Constance,"  Page  cried,  "  the  war  isn't  over, 
only  a  part  of  it  is  over.  I  know  the  battles  are  all 
over,  that  those  horrors  are  of  the  past ;  that  the  blood 
of  our  gallant  brave,  our  darling  soldiers,  that  soaked 
the  earth,  has  dried ;  that  the  dying  groans  and  shrieks 
that  rent  the  air,  are  silenced;  that  the  sun  no  longer 
blazes  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead,  and  that  the  snow 
no  longer  falls  and  covers  them!  Yes,  those  horrors 
of  war  are  over!  But  there  is  another  horror,  an- 
other battlefield,  where  white- faced  soul-and-body- 
starved  survivors  eke  out  a  living  death !  Aunt  Con- 
stance," she  burst  forth,  "  how  can  you  say  the  war  is 
over?  Is  it  over  for  you  and  me,  and  those  like  us, 
who  hardly  have  bread  to  eat  —  is  it  over  for  Miss 
Mildred  Brockenborough,  that  sweet,  timid,  sensitive 
old  lady,  who  sits  trembling  at  one  corner  of  the  table, 
dependent  for  her  bread  on  the  daughter  of  a  former 
seamstress  in  her  father's  home,  and  who  doesn't  wear 
a  piece  of  clothing  that  isn't  given  out  of  charity?  Is 
it  over  for  those  of  us  who  are  selling  ourselves  as 
wives  to  our  inferiors  ?  Is  it  over  for  those  delicate, 
fragile  girls  who  go  out  to  work  and  are  no  more 


14         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

fitted  for  labor  than  canary  birds  ?  Is  it  over  for  them 
when  their  backs  ache,  and  their  tears  flow,  and  when 
they  choose  obscure  streets  to  walk  in  to  avoid  meet- 
ing their  acquaintances,  and  when  every  breath  they 
draw  is  a  breath  of  shame?  Is  it  over  for  Mamie 
Allison,  working  in  a  box  factory?  No!  We  are  in 
the  midst  of  war  —  war  that  is  waged  upon  our  souls 
as  well  as  bodies !  " 

"  Page,"  returned  her  aunt  excitedly,  "  I  am  really 
alarmed  about  you !  You  are  letting  your  imagination 
run  away  with  you!  Our  circumstances  are  pitiable 
enough,  I  know,  but  don't,  my  dear  child,  paint  the 
picture  worse  than  it  is !  " 

"  The  picture  can't  be  worse  than  it  is !  "  cried  Page, 
"  and  what  is  going  to  become  of  us  ?  What  is  going 
to  become  of  me  ?  Am  I  to  sell  in  a  store  like  Judith 
Harrison  and  fall  off  to  a  skeleton  in  six  weeks  and  be 
discharged  for  hiding  from  customers  rather  than 
selling  them?  Am  I  going  to  be  a  governess  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  parvenus,  whose  past  inferiority  will 
revenge  itself  through  me?  Am  I  going  on  the  stage 
like  little  Molly  Lou  Carter  and  be  stared  at  by  a  lot 
of  vulgar  men  ?  It  killed  her.  It  might  drive  me  mad 
or  I  might  kill  someone.  Am  I  going  to  keep  a 
boarding-house,  I,  who  wouldn't  know  how  to  run  my 
own  home  unless  Mammy  came  to  live  with  me!  " 

"  Page !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Constance  in  alarm,  "  you 
exaggerate  terribly !  You  have  a  roof  over  your  head 
and  enough  to  eat.  Try  to  have  more  faith,  my  child. 
You  mustn't  allow  yourself  to  dwell  on  those  things  at 
all!" 

"  I  must  dwell  on  them,  Aunt  Constance,  for  I  mean 
to  tell  the  wprld  about  them !  "  Tears  sprang  to  the 
luminous,  excited  eyes.  "  I  have  a  wonderful  picture 


OPPOSITION  15 

to  present  to  the  world!  There  will  be  many  tears 
shed  over  what  I  shall  tell,  and  men  and  women  will 
scoff  and  sneer  and  condemn  and  disbelieve,  but  they 
will  not  forget  what  I  have  told  them.  The  charac- 
ters, many  of  them,  will  stand  up  before  them  pale  and 
grewsome,  but  their  eyes  will  burn  into  their  callous 
souls!  I  know  of  whom  I  am  going  to  write;  they 
are  marching  single  file  this  moment  before  my  eyes! 
I  think  I  should  write  of  these  things !  I  think  every 
one  of  us  should  record  his  or  her  impressions  of  our 
vanishing  South!  We  who  can  only  form  letters 
should  write;  those  of  us  who  can  paint  should  paint, 
even  though  the  results  be  but  daubs  or  shadows  of 
the  picture;  embroiderers  should  learn  to  embroider 
scenes  that  will  go  down  to  the  future;  the  wood- 
carver  should  make  images  on  whatever  work  he  does ! 
For  my  part,  I  want  to  write  about  us  women!  The 
broken-down,  heart-broken  mothers,  the  old  young 
women,  the  sweet,  sweet,  maiden  ladies,  purer  than 
angels,  the  young  girls,  all  poor,  helpless,  despairing  — 
some  patient,  some  impatient,  we  the  robbed  and  the 
bereft,  in  a  condition  ruthlessly  imposed,  a  condition 
the  horrors  of  which  have  never  been  revealed.  I  am 
mad  to  tell  of  these  things.  If  I  only  told  of  you, 
don't  you  think  people  would  want  to  hear!  Suppose 
I  told  of  your  efforts  since  the  war  to  help  your  sweet 
self,  those  efforts  that  are  more  pitiful  than  your 
failures !  Suppose  I  told  how  you  taught  little  chil- 
dren, kept  house  for  the  "  poor  white  trash,"  who 
treated  you  as  a  servant;  how  you  sewed  and  em- 
broidered and  made  pickles,  and  of  what  you  are  do- 
ing now !  " 

The  girl's  splendid  eyes  filled  with  tears.     "  There 
are  others  like  you,  Aunt  Constance,  whose  lives  are 


16         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

poems,  that  if  told  should  uplift  the  world  and  teach 
of  courage !  I  want  to  tell  these  things  —  I  must !  I 
feel  impelled  to ;  I  want  everybody  to  know  about  us  — 
we  the  living  victims  of  war!  We  are  history  — 
everything  about  us  is  history !  You  are  history,  this 
old  shawl,"  Page  lifted  it  tragically  in  her  hands,  "  is 
history,  and  I  must  write  this  history,  Aunt  Constance 
—  I've  got  to !  There  seems  to  me  something  super- 
latively grand  and  sublimely  touching  in  it  all !  " 

She  paused  while  a  shudder  that  she  controlled 
quickly  passed  over  her. 

"  I  want,  also,"  she  burst  forth  again,  "  to  write 
about  our  poor  colored  people.  Our  dear  old  servants, 
helpless  as  children,  dragging  wearily  along  a  hopeless 
road  to  the  door  of  shame  and  despair.  I  read  in  the 
papers  the  other  day  of  an  old  colored  woman  who  fell 
down  outside  the  gate  of  a  poor-house  and  shrieked  and 
screamed,  and  bit  at  the  people  who  tried  to  make  her 
enter  it.  She  went  mad  for  the  moment.  To-day, 
I  read  that  she  is  very  docile,  just  sits  there  rocking 
her  body  and  crooning.  I  want  to  tell  about  her  — 
how  /  see  her !  " 

"  Page,  if  you  were  to,  you  would  only  be  called  a 
sensational  Southerner." 

"  I  am  a  sensational  Southerner !  "  exclaimed  Page. 
"  Oh !  Aunt  Constance,  you  don't  know  how  my  brain 
burns  with  these  things !  You  don't  know  the  visions 
I  have  that  I  could  put  into  words!  If  only  I  could 
be  away  from  the  old  conditions  that  not  only  oppress 
but  hold  me  down,  if  I  could  go  away,  be  separated 
from_" 

"Page!" 

Aunt  Constance's  voice  was  a  gasp  and  her  face 
paled. 


OPPOSITION  17 

"  Well,"  echoed  Page,  breathlessly. 

"  You  mean  that  you  want  to  go  away  —  leave 
Richmond?" 

"I  do!"  She  put  up  her  hands.  "Oh!  Please 
don't,  Aunt  Constance !  —  don't  let  that  look  come  into 
your  face!  I  can't  bear  the  idea  of  giving  you  pain, 
but  I  do  want  to  go  away.  I  want  to  be  alone  and  find 
out  about  myself  and  what  I  can  do!  I  may  as  well 
tell  you,"  she  continued  recklessly,  "  that  I'm  thinking 
of  selling  my  little  house  —  the  real  estate  men  have 
been  trying  to  get  me  to  sell  for  months.  They  want 
to  put  up  a  row  of  tenements  —  and  I  want  to  go 
where  I  can  hide  away  and  work  until  I  accomplish 
my  purpose  of  becoming  an  author!  " 

Aunt  Constance's  face  was  death-like. 

"  Page !  "  she  half  shrieked,  "  do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying !  You,  a  Page,  a  Warwick,  my  niece,  think- 
ing for  one  moment  of  putting  your  feet  in  the  North ! 
Why  I  would  remain  in  Virginia  if  it  meant  starva- 
tion, if  the  land  was  a  smoldering  fire  and  the  rivers 
had  all  dried  up !  I'm  ashamed  of  you !  " 

"  Aunt  Constance,"  began  Page  awkwardly. 

"My  child,  what  did  your  father  do?  What  did 
they  all  do  when  not  alone  starvation  stared  them  in 
the  face,  but  rifle  balls  were  flying  at  them  like  hail? 
They  stood  their  ground,  their  Virginia  ground! 
Think  of  them!  Think  of  Benny,  my  poor  brother, 
shot  to  pieces  and  dragging  that  flag  up  the  hill  and 
then  falling  dead  beside  it !  And  we,  we  women,  we 
who  inspired  them  and  urged  them  on  to  their  death, 
are  we  going  to  falter  and  faint  by  the  wayside?" 

For  a  moment,  Page  gazed  into  the  pallid  horror- 
struck  countenance,  then  she  sprang  forward  and  put 
her  arms  passionately  around  the  fragile  form. 


i8         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  Forgive  me,  Aunt  Constance,  please  forgive  me!  " 
she  cried,  and  broke  into  tears. 

"  Why,  my  child,"  Aunt  Constance  exclaimed,  all 
tenderness  now,  as  she  embraced  her,  "  we  have  to  bear 
what  the  good  Lord  has  seen  fit  to  put  on  us  to  bear. 
Would  you  be  a  traitor  —  a  traitor  to  old  Virginia?  " 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  middle-aged  lady  whom 
half  the  town  called  Cousin  Betty.  She  entered  joy- 
ously with  a  little  jar  of  brandy  peaches  and  some 
sweet  pickles  in  her  hands. 

"  They  were  given  to  me,  dear,"  she  said,  offering 
them  to  Aunt  Constance,  "  but  I  had  a  feast  where  I 
got  them,  and  I  just  pass  them  on." 

She  indulged  in  a  merry  laugh  that  enlivened  things. 

"  I  am  quite  wealthy,  this  morning,"  she  cried ;  "  I've 
raffled  off  my  old  inlaid  desk !  " 

"  Cousin  Betty!  "  Page  gasped,  "  not  your  beautiful 
inlaid  desk !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  Mattie 
Harvey  won  it  and,  poor  child,  she'll  send  it  back." 

Page  laughed.  "  In  the  meantime,"  said  Cousin 
Betty,  "  I  have  the  money !  Whenever  I  get  hard  up," 
she  continued,  "  I  raffle  some  of  my  useful  or  useless 
valuables!  It's  exciting  and  it  keeps  me  going!  " 

"  Betty,"  said  Aunt  Constance,  recovering  herself, 
"  I  couldn't  do  such  things  to  save  my  life!  " 

"  Well,  my  dear  Constance,  I  don't  suppose  you 
could,  but  /  can  and  that's  the  difference  between  us. 
We  can't  be  all  alike,  you  know,  and  of  course,  it's  a 
blessed  thing  we  can't !  " 

"  I  sometimes  wonder,"  said  Aunt  Constance  in  a 
suppressed  voice,  "  what  we  are  all  coming  to !  " 

"  Oh,  so  do  I,"  exclaimed  Cousin  Betty  airily,  "  and," 
she  added,  "  to  think  of  the  things  we  do  have  to  do ! 


OPPOSITION  19 

If  it  wasn't  for  all  the  old  things  I  have  and  which  I 
raffle,  I'd  actually  be  at  my  wits'  end  at  times.  But 
I  can't  believe  that  the  good  Lord  has  entirely  forgot- 
ten us,  though  sometimes  it  seems  so!  Both  of  those 
old  houses  of  mine  are  vacant,"  she  added. 

"  Oh,  how  dreadful,"  echoed  Page. 

"  Yes,  it  is.  I  haven't  been  able  to  put  any  repairs 
on  them  and  the  people,  good  souls,  were  actually 
afraid  they  would  tumble  down  on  them.  Surely," 
she  went  on,  laughing  heartily,  "  I'm  in  a  dilemma.  If 
I  appropriate  the  rent  to  fixing  up  the  houses,  I  have 
nothing  to  live  on,  and  if  I  don't  appropriate  it  to  fix- 
ing them  up,  the  people  can't  live  in  them  and  pay  me 
the  rent,  so  what  on  earth  am  I  to  do?  " 

"  I  declare  I  don't  know,"  and  Aunt  Constance 
could  not  resist  a  little  laugh  with  the  others.  But 
suddenly  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  began  to 
cry. 

"  My  dear  Constance!  "  Cousin  Betty  cried,  "  what 
is  the  matter?  " 

"  It's  Page,"  said  Aunt  Constance,  freeing  her  face 
and  looking  out  through  tear  dimmed  eyes,  "  she's 
thinking  of  going  away." 

"  Good  gracious,  are  you  paying  attention  to  Page's 
nonsense?  She  always  has  some  outlandish  ideas  in 
her  head.  It's  this  shutting  herself  up  writing  a  lot 
of  silly  stuff  that's  turning  her  head.  You've  got  to 
stop  that,  Page,"  she  said,  turning  to  her,  "  leave  the 
writing  and  all  that  kind  of  thing  to  the  men,  dear. 
The  George  Eliots  and  George  Sands  and  all  those 
masculine  creatures!  Why,  if  your  father  and  grand- 
father were  to  hear  of  these  tendencies  of  yours  up 
in  heaven,  they  would  come  down  to  set  you  straight. 
You're  mighty  lucky  to  be  able  to  live  on  the  top  floor 


20         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

of  your  little  house  and  with  enough  to  eat.  Under 
the  circumstances,  you  ought  to  be  content !  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  it,  Cousin  Betty !  "  exclaimed  Page, 
"I  ought  to  be!" 

"  Do  you  know  what  else  you  ought  to  do,"  said 
Cousin  Betty.  "  You  ought  to  marry  David  Lee.  In 
that  way,  what  with  renting  your  house,  you  could  all 
live  very  comfortably." 

Page  laughed  hysterically.  "  Marry  Dave  and  live 
in  his  solemn  old  prison  with  his  mother  doing  her 
duty  and  his  Uncle  Ran  reading  law  and  chewing 
tobacco  all  day !  I  couldn't  do  it !  I  know  What  mar- 
riage means  these  days!  It  means  poverty  and  toil 
and  — " 

"  It  means  happiness  to  the  woman  who  loves  her 
husband,  no  matter  what  the  conditions  are !  "  Cousin 
Betty  interrupted  hotly. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  Cousin  Betty !  They  may  think 
they  are  happy,  because  they've  been  taught  to  think 
marriage  means  happiness,  but  it  wouldn't  mean  hap- 
piness to  me !  " 

"  Page !  "  interrupted  Aunt  Constance  reprovingly. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  Page. 
Your  Aunt  Constance  and  I  must  look  after  you 
more,"  said  Cousin  Betty.  "  Put  your  hat  on  and  let's 
go  out  somewhere  and  change  our  thoughts.  We'll 
go  around  and  see  old  Mrs.  Paterson.  When  you  get 
back  home,  you'll  think  you  are  mighty  well  off !  " 

In  the  street  the  brightness  of  the  spring  day  met 
them.  It  had  rained  the  night  before,  the  damp  bricks 
of  the  pavement,  drying  in  the  hot  sun,  sent  up  a  warm 
breath  that  touched  their  faces,  but  a  gentle  breeze 
greeted  it  from  above  and  the  early  leaves  of  the  trees, 
still  damp,  were  quite  dazzling. 


OPPOSITION  21 

"  This  is  a  beautiful  world,  my  dear,  and  the  kind- 
ness in  it  is  sufficient  to  keep  joy  in  us,"  said  Cousin 
Betty  after  a  silence  of  a  couple  of  blocks,  during 
which  Page  had  been  absently  listening  to  the  twitter- 
ing of  the  birds.  "  Even  old  Mrs.  Paterson  has  much 
to  keep  life  up  and  be  thankful  for.  The  Guild  mem- 
bers have  put  in  and  hired  old  Cynthia  regularly  for 
her  now,  and  it  is  a  great  comfort  to  her.  The  two 
sit  and  talk  by  the  hour  of  old  times.  Old  Mrs.  Hen- 
derson scolds  Cynthia  every  morning  as  a  last  remnant 
of  her  power,  but  Cynthia  says,  '  She  ain't  no  more'n 
a  child,  en  what  she  keer,  enyhow,  what  old  Miss 
say.' '  Cousin  Betty  laughed.  "  I  tell  you,  though, 
it's  a  great  come  down ;  the  old  lady  entertained  royally 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.  They  had  their  private  wharf 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  slaves !  " 

"  She  looks  like  a  mummy  now,"  said  Page  sol- 
emnly, "  and  her  hands  lying  on  her  old  black  velvet 
skirt  are  like  shrunken  lily  leaves." 

"  Everything  looks  like  something  else  to  you, 
Page,"  said  Cousin  Betty  with  a  shade  of  impatience. 
"  Old  Mrs.  Paterson's  hands  don't  look  one  bit  like 
shrunken  lily  leaves.  They  are  the  hands  of  a  delicate 
old  gentlewoman,  that's  all !  " 

"  I  wonder  if  I  am  going  to  develop  into  that  kind 
of  an  old  gentlewoman  or  become  a  helpless  dependent 
like  poor  old  Miss  Mildred?  " 

"  No,"  laughed  Cousin  Betty,  "  because  David  Lee 
isn't  going  to  let  you." 

"  Oh !  Dave,"  Page  returned,  flushing,  "  that's  out 
of  the  question!  It  seems  to  me  we  are  all  tending 
towards  something  terrible!"  she  added  tragically. 

"  We  are  all  tending  towards  what  the  good  Lord  has 
in  store  for  us,  Page.  The  trouble  is  you  are  letting 


22 

your  imagination  run  away  with  you.  Your  talk  of 
leaving  home,  my  dear,  is  preposterous.  The  writing 
fever  is  bad  enough,  but  if  you  have  it,  and  have  got  to 
go  through  it,  home,  where  everybody  loves  you  and 
will  overlook  things,  is  the  place  for  you.  I  wonder 
why/'  she  added,  turning  sharply  upon  her,  "  you 
can't  make  up  your  mind  to  marry  David  —  he  loves 
you,  has  a  comfortable  home  to  take  you  to,  and  that 
would  end  all  your  burdens.  And  let  me  tell  you  this, 
Page:  you  should  put  that  wild  thought  of  going  away 
out  of  your  mind  forever!  You  are  very  dear  to  us 
all,  Page ;  you  have  no  idea  how  dear,  and  I'm  some- 
times wicked  enough  to  wonder  how  even  heaven 
could  be  sweeter  than  our  dear  old  Virginia.  Why 
sometimes  in  the  morning  when  I  go  out  for  a  walk, 
it's  so  sweet  out  of  doors,  the  air  is  so  fresh  and  the 
breeze  hits  me  in  the  face  so  delicately  and  the  sky  all 
over  me  is  so  blue  that  I  feel  it's  not  so  much  that  we 
love  Virginia  as  that  Virginia  loves  us.  I  wish  you 
would  promise  me  to  never  speak  again  as  you  did  to- 
day, that  is,  unless  you  want  to  break  your  Aunt  Con- 
stance's heart ! " 

Page  made  no  reply,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence 
until  they  reached  the  little  rose-covered  frame  house 
in  which  Mrs.  Paterson  occupied  a  rear  room  on  the 
first  floor,  which  opened  out  on  a  small  porch  into  the 
back  yard.  Soon  Page  was  listening  with  rapt  atten- 
tion to  the  conversation  of  the  four  women,  for  Aunt 
Cynthia,  seated  on  Mrs.  Paterson's  little  hair  trunk, 
which  was  probably  over  a  hundred  years  old,  took 
part.  But  while  she  listened  outwardly  calm  and  def- 
erential, a  sharp  analysis  of  the  lives  of  these  people 
and  their  topics  of  conversation  was  going  on  in  her 
mind,  until  gradually,  as  the  sun  began  to  lower  and 


OPPOSITION  23 

desert  the  little  porch,  a  settled  melancholy  was  upon 
her.  When  they  reached  the  street,  however,  her  spir- 
its rose.  The  visit  to  her  Aunt  Constance  and  to  this 
impoverished  old  gentlewoman,  living  upon  memories 
and  false  sentiment,  the  latter  tyrannized  over  by  an 
old  negress,  had  given  courage  to  her  heart  that  leaped 
at  one  more  battle  gained  in  its  behalf. 

"  Constance,"  Cousin  Betty  said,  as  Page  parted 
from  them  at  a  corner,  "  you  leave  Page  to  me.  She 
will  stay  right  here  and  marry  David  Lee  —  that's 
what  Miss  Page  will  do!  " 

"  You  don't  know  her,  Betty,  she  has  such  a  strong 
will!" 

"  So  have  I  a  strong  will !  Now,  I  tell  you  what 
we'll  do!  We'll  just  take  a  trip  down  the  James  River 
to  Fielding  Peyton's,  carry  Page  along,  get  Dave  there 
at  the  same  time,  and  I  warrant  ten  to  one  the  whole 
matter  will  come  to  a  head.  Now  you  see !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Betty  ?  "  Aunt  Constance  asked 
wistfully. 

"Of  course  I  do !  Now  don't  say  a  word;  I'm  go- 
ing to  pay  the  expense !  " 

"  Dear  Betty !  "  Aunt  Constance  exclaimed. 

"  Dear  you!  "  said  Cousin  Betty.  "  You  are  in  need 
of  a  change  —  a  breath  of  country  air  will  do  you  a 
world  of  good!  " 


CHAPTER  IV 

VANISHING   HOMESTEADS 

THE  next  morning  it  was  raining  hopelessly.  Page 
thought  dismally,  as  she  often  had  before,  that  it  could 
never  rain  anywhere,  except  Richmond,  in  just  this 
way.  She  looked  a  while  through  the  blurred  mist 
and  at  the  regular  little  rivers  that  ran  through  the 
reddish  earth  of  the  streets,  experiencing  a  satisfaction 
in  the  terrific  downpour  as  if  it  were  some  kind  of 
an  outlet  to  her  own  feelings.  Then  she  dressed  herself 
and  went  over  to  the  house  opposite  for  her  breakfast. 

The  rent  had  been  paid  her.  She  felt  like  a  crim- 
inal when  she  took  it,  and  she  paid  Mrs.  Stebbins,  and 
Mrs.  Stebbins  felt  like  a  criminal  when  she  took  it,  and 
so  these  war-impoverished  beings  lived.  When  Page 
left  the  dining-room,  old  Mrs.  Stebbins  followed  her 
to  the  basement  door,  and  put  her  big,  soft,  motherly 
arms  around  her. 

"  Don't  worry  so,  honey,"  she  said.  "  You  haven't 
eaten  enough  in  a  week  to  keep  a  bird  alive.  Have  I 
ever  pressed  you  for  your  board  ?  " 

"  No,  Mrs.  Stebbins,  no,  no,  never !  You're  always 
good  and  kind  to  me  and  everybody,  and  we  are  always 
owing  you."  She  held  the  old  woman  close.  "  That's 
what  hurts  so,"  she  cried.  "  You  would  go  on  feed- 
ing us  if  we  never  paid  —  go  on  wearing  your  poor, 
dear  self  out!"  She  freed  herself.  "What  a  des- 
perate set  we  are  who  gather  around  your  table,  Mrs. 
Stebbins !  "  she  exclaimed. 

24 


VANISHING  HOMESTEADS  25 

"  Lord,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Stebbins,  "  as  long  as 
we  are  kind  to  one  another,  what  does  it  matter? 
What  hurts  me  is  your  holdin'  back  about  eatin'  be- 
cause you're  behind  a  few  dollars.  Honey,  sometimes 
I  don't  know  which  has  paid  me  and  which  ain't,  I  jess 
take  what's  handed  me,  thankful  to  God." 

"  That's  no  reason,  Mrs.  Stebbins,"  said  Page  hotly, 
"  why  \ve  should  impose  on  you!  " 

"  Miss  Page,"  answered  Mrs.  Stebbins,  while  a 
happy  look  crossed  her  dear  old  face,  "  nobody  ever 
imposed  on  me  in  my  life!  What's  givin'  a  few  meals 
now  en  then?  Honey,  I  love  everybody  that  I  has 
to  feed,  whether  they  pay  or  not.  I  believe  I  love  old 
Miss  Mildred  more'n  any." 

Page  left  this  old  lady  with  a  sweet  feeling  of  holi- 
ness upon  her,  but  she  knew  that  it  would  not  prevent 
her  pride  from  stinging  her  if  she  hadn't  the  money 
for  her  the  next  time. 

Before  she  crossed  the  street,  she  stood  for  a  long 
time  looking  at  the  little  house  she  lived  in  and  those 
on  either  side  that  formed  the  block. 

It  was  very  quaint  and  pretty,  this  little  block  of 
homes.  The  houses,  most  of  them  small,  simple, 
brick  structures,  being  in  the  hands  of  the  real  estate 
people,  were  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  be  torn 
down  and  cast  into  oblivion.  Each  one  had  its  yard 
and  particular  characteristics  and  flowers.  Page 
knew  all  these  flowers  as  she  knew  people,  the  rose- 
bush at  the  corner,  with  snow  white  blossoms,  the 
pink  one  that  climbed  up  the  side  of  a  falling  chim- 
ney ;  the  little  yellow  one  just  inside  a  certain  gate,  that 
protected  itself  by  briary  stems  and  bloomed,  year 
after  year,  ahead  of  all  the  rest,  with  airy  impudence 
—  she  knew  them  all ;  the  scarlet  sage,  the  hollyhocks, 


26         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

the  syringa  bushes,  the  mimosa  trees,  the  little  patches 
of  cowslips,  the  sweet  peas  clinging  to  rotting  sticks, 
the  snowballs,  the  lilies,  white  and  yellow,  and  for  a 
long  while  now  every  blossom  owed  its  life  to  her,  for 
when  she  spoke  the  word,  they  would  bloom  no  more. 
Suddenly  she  loved  all  these  flowers  and  the  sad, 
broken-down  little  homes  with  a  peculiar  passionate 
tenderness,  and  they  all  seemed  to  look  reproachfully 
at  her  and  the  dewdrops  she  fancied  were  their  tears. 
She  walked  to  the  corner.  There  was  an  old  de- 
serted house  here  whose  owner,  having  sold  out  igno- 
miniously  on  the  first  opportunity,  had  left  for  parts 
unknown.  The  house  was  decaying,  but  attempted 
to  conceal  this  by  covering  itself  with  vines  as  the  con- 
sumptive's hectic  flush  conceals  the  ravages  of  his  dis- 
ease. The  fences  were  partly  down,  the  greenhouses 
smashed  and  caved  in,  the  grounds  and  paths  over- 
grown with  weeds.  It  was  desolation,  but  still  a  few 
flowers  bloomed  there.  She  looked  in  their  tender 
faces  and  thought  of  Mrs.  Paterson  and  her  Aunt 
Constance  and  many  others.  Their  fences  were  down, 
their  windows  smashed,  wild  weeds  of  poverty  were 
choking  them,  and  yet  they  bloomed  on,  scarcely 
knowing  why  in  the  midst  of  devastation.  She  thought 
a  long  while,  leaning  against  one  of  the  old  decrepit 
fences  and  then  her  mind  again  reverted  to  this  little 
block  of  homes  whose  continued  existence  she  held  in 
the  hollow  of  her  hand.  Her  heart  went  out  to  it 
anew,  and  fingers  seemed  to  clutch  at  it,  because,  in 
spite  of  all,  she  saw  stretched  before  her  in  a  straight 
hideous  line  the  row  of  brick  tenements. 


CHAPTER  V 

DREAMS    UNVEILED 

Ax  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  she  was  seated  at  her 
little  window  looking  out,  first  at  the  boarding-house 
opposite,  where  the  gas  flames,  all  at  half  pressure 
out  of  deference  —  gas-economy  had  become  a  mad- 
ness in  this  neighborhood  —  were  burning  dolefully, 
apparently  without  interest  in  their  duty  of  lighting 
up,  and  then  at  the  dark  shadows  that  appeared  and 
vanished  either  in  one  direction  or  the  other. 

Her  mind  was  active  planning  a  thousand  schemes, 
a  thousand  excuses,  first  of  all  to  her  Aunt  Con- 
stance, and  this  one  and  that  one,  provided  she  should 
go  away. 

Suddenly  David  Lee  appeared  out  of  the  gloom 
approaching  the  house  with  his  slow,  graceful  stride. 
She  knew  him  a  block  away,  and  against  her  will  her 
heart  leaped  to  her  throat  and  throbbed. 

Not  only  had  her  name  always,  even  from  child- 
hood, been  coupled  with  his,  but  she  knew  also  that  he 
had  influence  over  her,  half  hypnotic,  that  she  had  al- 
ways found  difficult  to  resist.  With  her  present  in- 
tentions, he  assumed  the  form  of  a  partly  feared, 
partly  inspired  enemy.  Dave  was  the  one  she  would 
find  it  hardest  to  fight ;  the  one  who  would  stand  like 
a  rock  between  her  and  the  sea  of  self-realization  she 
longed  to  plunge  into. 

Mrs.  Bartlett  came  to  the  foot  of  the  steps  and  called 
her. 

27 


28 

She  answered  but  remained  seated  afterwards  a 
full  five  minutes.  Finally  she  arose,  descended  the  two 
flights  of  stairs  slowly,  and  a  few  moments  later  con- 
fronted him,  standing  in  the  center  of  Mrs.  Bartlett's 
stiff  little  parlor. 

Close  and  musty  it  was,  its  carpet  of  great  garlands 
of  faded  roses  giving  out  the  faint  odor  of  time.  As 
Mrs.  Bartlett,  like  the  rest  of  her  neighbors,  economized 
in  gas,  a  small  lamp  was  burning  on  one  end  of  the 
piano.  It  threw  a  circle  of  light  on  the  dingy  ceiling 
and  lit  up  a  wreath  of  immortelles,  under  a  glass  case, 
that  had  once  decorated  the  coffin  of  a  dead  relative, 
but  were  now  hanging  on  the  wall.  The  sofa  upon 
which  they  sat  was  hard  and  small  and  covered  in 
horsehair.  Hanging  above  their  heads  was  a  chromo 
of  the  Savior  nailed  to  the  cross,  and  over  the  man- 
tel-piece, above  a  framed  photograph  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bartlett  in  wedding  attire,  was  another  picture  of  some 
very  ripe  fruit  tumbling  out  of  a  basket. 

Never  was  there  more  forbidding  stage  for  a  young 
lover  bent  upon  pleading  a  difficult  cause,  and  Dave, 
with  a  kind  of  half  smile,  took  this  in.  Then  a  look 
of  sadness  crossed  his  delicate  features.  It  was  a  pic- 
ture of  the  grim  present,  as  the  home  he  had  just  left 
was  a  picture  of  the  mellowed  past.  He  wondered  for 
a  moment  what  the  picture  of  the  future  would  be. 

"  Your  Cousin  Betty  took  tea  with  us  last  night," 
he  began  presently,  leading  Page  to  the  small  horse- 
hair sofa  and  seating  her  beside  him. 

"Yes?"  asked  Page. 

There  was  a  pause  and  then  he  added  with  attempted 
levity : 

"  She  rather  shocked  mother  by  telling  her  of  your 
talk  about  going  away." 


DREAMS  UNVEILED  29 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  idea  will  shock  every- 
one —  at  first,"  Page  replied  with  a  nervous  laugh. 
"  I  suppose  it  is  also  a  shock  to  you." 

"Shock?"  Dave  answered  quietly,  "I  would  con- 
sider your  putting  into  effect  such  an  idea  something 
like  a  tragedy." 

"Why?" 

"  In  my  life." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes  lit  by  a  sudden  lumi- 
nosity. 

"  Dave,"  she  said,  "  I  know  how  perverse  this  idea 
of  mine  seems,  and  yet  the  time  has  come  for  me  to 
make  some  kind  of  change.  I  have  received  another 
offer  for  this  house.  Those  real  estate  men  I  told  you 
of  want  it  more  than  ever.  Their  intention  is  to  tear 
down  this  whole  block  and  put  up  a  row  of  tenement 
houses.  They  have  gotten  possession  of  all  but  this 
one.  When  I  do  leave  here,  I  want  to  do  something 
to  make  my  own  living,  and  New  York  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  place  to  do  it,  unmolested  and  in  my  own  way. 
With  the  money,"  she  spoke  rapidly,  "  I  receive  for  the 
house,  I  can  go!  " 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  leave  home,  Page  ?  " 

"  To  write,"  she  answered,  flushing  hotly. 

"  Can't  you  write  here  —  haven't  you  been  doing 
so?" 

"  Yes,  but  not  successfully.  I  want  to  be  alone  — 
to  be  separated  from  my  present  conditions !  I  want," 
her  voice  was  a  bit  unsteady,  "  a  small  corner  and  iso- 
lation —  I  want  —  I  do  not  know  how  to  explain  it 
—  to  realize  myself  in  order  to  express  what  that  self 
contains.  Here  I  am,  like  so  many  others,  a  part  of 
the  whole  —  I  do  not  dare  to  be  myself !  " 

"  Have  you  no  thought  whatever,"  he  asked  a  bit 


30         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

sternly,  "  of  our  marriage  as  the  solution  to  all  this 
mental  unrest  ?  " 

She  looked  squarely  at  him.  "  No !  For  there  are 
rights  of  my  being  that  cry  out  for  what  marriage 
could  never  supply!  Marriage!  Marrying  and,  as 
they  call  it,  settling  down  for  life,  is  just  what  I  don't 
want  —  I  want  to  live !  " 

"  Page,"  exclaimed  Dave  sharply,  "  marriage  is  a 
woman's  life! " 

"  It  isn't !  I've  seen  enough  of  marriages  in  our 
desperate  circumstances.  Women  become  the  slaves 
of  men  and  men  become  the  slaves  of  women.  You 
know  that  it  is  so,  Dave ;  you  see  it  with  your  own  eyes 
every  day.  Marriage ! "  she  laughed  hysterically, 
"  what  have  we,  such  as  you  and  I,  to  do  with  mar- 
riage ?  " 

He  half-smiled  into  the  lit  up  eyes.  "  I  have  never 
regarded  marriage  in  that  light,"  he  replied.  And  then 
the  smile  died  and  a  glow,  similar  to  that  in  her  own 
eyes,  lit  his.  "  To  me  marriage  is  a  divine  luxury,  a 
holy  joy;  a  mad  but  sacred  passion  that  obliterates 
conditions  and  makes  of  the  prison  house  a  palace. 
The  ideas  that  take  possession  of  my  brain  when  I 
dare  think  of  marriage  in  connection  with  you  are  so 
fine,  so  lofty,  so  dazzling,  that  if  I  gave  them  full 
play,  they  would  build  a  monument  before  your  eyes 
that  would  shut  out  the  world  and  make  you  a  reck- 
lessly willing  captive !  "  He  followed  his  words  with 
a  low  triumphant  laugh  that  stirred  her. 

She  felt  the  spell  of  him,  the  charm  of  his  poetic 
personality  and  marvelous  voice,  the  voice  of  the 
speaker,  the  born  orator,  the  man  who  makes  music 
out  of  words,  dominating  her  as  it  always  did,  and  she 
resisted  it. 


DREAMS  UNVEILED  31 

"  Captivity,"  she  cried,  "  I  don't  want  captivity.  I 
want  freedom !  Freedom  to  be  myself  —  to  work  out 
my  own  destiny.  My  mind  is  full  of  wonderful 
dreams.  These  dreams  are  always  with  me,  no  matter 
how  I  strive  to  put  them  from  me.  If  only  I  could 
put  them  from  me,  and  go  on  living  out  my  life  as 
every  one  else  does!  But  I  can't!  No  sooner  do  I 
make  the  attempt  than  they  rise  up  and  tear  at  my 
brain.  When  I  close  my  eyes  at  night,  I  see  visions 
that  blind  me,  and  I  want  to  write  out  these  visions 
and  give  them  to  the  world  and  have  the  world  ap- 
plaud them.  I  can't  quell  this ;  ah !  Dave,  it  may  not 
be  noble  or  great  to  feel  this  way,  but  the  call  is 
stronger  than  I  —  it  hardens  my  heart  to  all  that  I 
hold  sacred;  it  make  me  at  times  utterly  unworthy  in 
my  own  eyes.  When  I  see  myself  turning  my  back 
on  all  those  who  love  me  and  whom  I  love,  I  hate  my- 
self!  But  I  do  turn  away!  I've  grown  intolerant  of 
duty,  these  duties  that  seem  to  be  crushing  everyone!  " 
Her  eyes  shot  forth  a  dismal  gleam.  "  I  am  so  tired  of 
living  in  hideous  poverty  —  of  seeing  it  —  breathing 
it,"  she  waved  her  hand,  "  every  day,  every  hour  of  my 
life!" 

She  leaned  her  back  against  the  hard  sofa  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Dave  studied  her  wistfully.  She  was 
so  rare,  so  feminine,  so  lovely  and  so  childishly  un- 
conscious of  the  world  she  was  contemplating,  that  it 
made  him  sick  with  fear.  How  could  he  —  how  did 
he  dare  —  lift  the  veil  that  would  show  her  why  it 
would  be  a  tragedy  not  alone  for  him,  but  for  her, 
a  young,  innocent,  inexperienced  girl,  to  even  contem- 
plate the  step.  It  left  him  dumb. 

His  face  had  grown  pale,  the  light  gradually  faded 
from  his  eyes  and  a  stern  pathetic  sadness  rilled  them. 


32          THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Presently  he  rose  and  stood  in  front  of  her,  still  gaz- 
ing upon  her  face  with  its  closed  eyes.  He  under- 
stood her  perfectly;  in  heart,  brain,  and  temperament. 
She  was  an  open  book  to  him  —  one  that  he  had  been 
reading  all  his  life  and  knew  word  for  word.  In  this 
moment,  she  was  a  tired,  worn-out  child  to  him  who 
had  traveled  a  weary,  rocky  road,  and  who  fancied  she 
saw  alluring  lights  of  a  strange  city  ahead.  She  was 
a  sick  child  whom  he  longed  to  take  in  his  arms  and 
comfort  and  make  forget  its  pain.  All  her  life  passed 
in  one  swift  second  before  him  and  wrung  his  heart. 
He  seemed  to  see  into  her  very  soul  —  all  its  desires  — 
aspirations  —  due  to  a  violent  imagination.  Then 
suddenly  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face.  What  had  he 
to  offer  her?  Himself,  and  she  did  not  find  him  suf- 
ficient. He  spoke  very  gently  to  her  as  her  eyes 
opened  and  met  his  own. 

"  Let's  go  out  on  Gamble's  Hill,"  he  said,  "  it's  beau- 
tiful there  anyway." 

She  rose  absently  and  walked  in  silence  with  him 
to  the  streets  and  then  on  and  on,  still  in  silence,  until 
they  reached  the  familiar  place. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   LOVER'S   APPEAL 

THE  air  was  warm  as  they  stood  there  on  the  old 
hillside.  The  heavens,  bursting  with  lights,  seemed 
each  moment  lowering  upon  them.  Below  and  in 
front  of  them  against  a  background  of  velvety  black 
night,  the  Tredegar  Iron  Works  gleamed  red  and 
lurid.  Over  the  trestles,  the  trains  crawled,  looking 
in  the  distance  like  illumined  snakes.  The  men,  bare  to 
the  waist,  were  appallingly  grotesque,  yet  picturesque, 
and  between  them  and  in  front  of  the  iron  works 
rolled  the  river,  quiescent  and  peaceful,  reflecting  all 
the  power  and  majesty  of  the  scene. 

They  stood  for  the  most  part  enveloped  in  darkness 
but  occasionally  lit  up  by  the  sudden  lights  that  glowed 
steadily.  For  a  few  moments,  Page  observed  Dave 
closely.  His  dark  eyes  were  looking  over  her  head 
far  beyond  her,  his  thin  lips  were  tightly  pressed,  his 
features  were  set  in  a  tense  stare. 

She  called  his  name  once,  twice,  three  times.  She 
called  him  then  sharply,  and  he  turned  slowly  and, 
bending  his  gaze  upon  her,  lashed  her  with  a  glance. 

"  Page,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  repressed  voice,  "  you've 
got  to  give  up  these  wild  ideas  of  yours  —  these  dreams 
or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  them.  You  could 
never,  even  though  they  took  you  to  the  farthest  cor- 
ners of  the  earth,  be  able  to  realize  them,  because  you 
could  not  descend  to  the  level  of  them  —  never  depart 
sufficiently  from  yourself  and  all  that  you  were  born  to. 

33 


34         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

For  a  moment  what  you  said  so  astonished  me  that  I 
stood  breathless  in  the  contemplation  of  the  impres- 
sion. But  now  I  must  talk  to  you,  and  you  must  lis- 
ten !  I  can  understand  what  influences  you  but  I  can- 
not be  in  sympathy.  To  sacrifice  all  that  one  holds 
sacred  for  the  possibility  of  acquiring  fame  and  com- 
fort, even  the  very  pomp  and  splendors  of  the  world, 
is  as  abhorrent  to  me  as  enduring  and  witnessing  pov- 
erty seems  to  be  to  you.  Since  the  history  of  the 
world  is  full  of  such  instances,  there  must  be  some 
excuse  for  it,  but  that  the  poison  should  have  entered 
you  whom  I  hold  so  sacred !  You  are  talking  of  tak- 
ing this  precious  body  away  to  a  strange  and  unknown 
land,  a  land  that  it  seems  to  me  must  be  to  you  always 
strange.  Do  you  forget  that  the  body  is  the  home  of 
your  soul!  Can  you  take  your  soul  to  New  York, 
Page,  can  you?  Is  it  the  place  for  it?  Is  it?"  His 
voice,  with  its  rising  inflection,  was  musical  on  the 
night  air,  and  stirred  her  so  that  words  died  in  her 
throat. 

"  I  know  you  so  much  better  than  you  know  your- 
self, know  that  your  dreams  are  your  life,  but  I 
honestly  believe  sweeter  dreams  can  come  to  you  in 
your  little  attic  room  here  than  in  a  palace  in  New 
York.  Believe  me,  your  dreams  would  be  dispelled 
there,  and  the  very  purpose  of  your  going  thwarted. 
Of  all  the  people  in  the  world  you  are  the  least  suited 
to  New  York.  They  speak  English  there,  yes,  but  it 
will  be  a  foreign  tongue  to  you,  and  their  ways  will 
be  foreign  ways  to  you.  You  do  not  realize  it  now, 
for  you  are  blind ! "  He  laid  his  hands  gently  upon 
her  shoulders.  "  It  is  your  youth  pent  up  with  the  de- 
sire for  expression  that  blinds  you.  Oh!  That  I 
could  take  the  bandages  from  these  sweet,  sweet  eyes 


THE  LOVER'S  APPEAL  35 

and  make  you  see !  Listen  to  me !  There  are  times, 
dearest  heart,  when  we  all  want  to  embark  upon  the 
ocean  of  the  world  with  our  song,  but  is  it  wise  —  is 
it  wise  for  you  ?  No,  no,  my  beloved ;  believe  me  it  is 
not  wise.  Only  one  thing  is  wise  for  you,  Page  — 
my  love!  Come  with  me  even  though  the  road  seems 
dark  to  you !  Come  to  my  old  sacred  home  and  forget 
your  desire  for  fame  and  the  vulgar  world.  I  promise 
you  something  better  than  fame,  better  than  the  world 
can  give;  I  promise  daily  feasts  of  love  with  God's  seal 
upon  them.  The  happiness  I  want  to  give  you  is  un- 
thinkable; if  you  could  only  see  a  shadow  of  it  you 
would  fall  into  my  arms!  Page!  Are  you  listen- 
ing to  me?  You  cannot  go  to  New  York  —  it  would 
blight  my  life  and  be  your  ruin!  " 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  as  his  voice  ceased, 
and  caught  all  the  radiance  of  his  beauty.  His  youth, 
his  ardor,  his  glorified  passion  for  her  flashed  upon  her 
gaze.  A  slight  moisture  stood  out  on  her  forehead, 
but  her  eyes  lowered  before  him. 

He  felt  the  significance  of  these  lowered  lids.  She 
was  resisting  him  —  refusing  to  follow  him.  Tears 
gushed  to  his  eyes  and  he  became  a  suppliant.  "  Give 
up  these  ideas !  "  he  cried,  taking  her  hands  up  in  a 
sharp  grasp.  "  There  are  times  when  one,  no  matter 
what  his  feelings  are,  should  sacrifice  them  in  a  sur- 
render. You  cannot  go  to  New  York,  Page!  Who 
there  would  understand  you,  your  little  joys,  your  little 
sorrows,  your  peculiar  Southern  way  of  viewing 
things,  the  sacred  thrills  that  generations  have  made 
possible?  It  is  not  so  easy  to  learn  new  ways.  I 
know  too  well  that  your  future  often  looms  up  dark 
before  you,  but  you  can  put  it  in  my  hands  —  make 
it  wv  worshipful  care!  You  see  lights  in  the  distance 


36         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

beckoning  you,  but  those  lights  will  vanish  at  your 
approach  and  always  beyond  you  you  will  see  other 
lights.  That  is  your  nature,  your  eyes  are  fixed  on 
the  beyond  —  ahead  of  you,  so  that  you  more  than 
anyone  need  some  one  to  guide  your  footsteps.  What 
you  require  is  not  freedom  but  to  be  bound  hand  and 
foot  by  love,  to  find  all  your  life  in  that.  Do  not  be 
blinded,  Page;  poor  as  I  am,  little  as  I  have  to  offer, 
my  love  will  make  up  for  everything!  I  know  that 
I  am  the  one  man  on  earth  capable  of  understanding 
you,  and  therefore  the  one  man  on  earth  for  you  and 
life  by  my  side  the  only  life  for  you!  " 

"  Dave,"  she  answered  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  listen 
to  me ! " 

He  pressed  her  hands  to  his  hot  lips.  "  I  will ! 
Speak,  my  love,  tell  me  what  I  am  to  hear !  " 

"  Dave,  I  may  be  blind,  as  you  say,  but  my  heart 
does  not  respond  to  the  life  you  describe.  While 
you  were  speaking,  with  my  mind's  eye,  in  one  flash 
I  saw  into  a  thousand  homes  in  Richmond  all  built 
upon  the  same  lines,  no  variety.  The  keynote  of 
every  life  repression  —  repression  of  self  and  obedi- 
ence to  the  inexorable,  cruel  authority  of  custom.  I 
saw  thousands  of  women  obliterated  in  ideas  of  wife- 
hood.  This  obliteration  of  self,  even  for  the  sake  of 
the  love  you  offer,  does  not  appeal  to  me!  " 

He  caught  her  hands.  "  Page,  my  darling !  What 
are  you  saying?  " 

She  freed  them.  "  No,  let  me  go  on.  Before  I 
surrender  myself  to  love,  obliterate  myself  in  love, 
I  want  to  see  what  that  self  is  —  what  is  contained  in 
it.  That  is  why  I  want  to  go  away  —  go  where  I 
shall  not  be  afraid  to  look  myself  in  the  face  and  say 
what  are  you  and  be  free  to  take  the  answer!  I  be- 


THE  LOVER'S  APPEAL  37 

lieve  there  is  something  more  in  life  than  to  become  a 
wife!  Why  merge  my  personality  into  yours  before 
I  even  know  what  that  personality  contains,  demands, 
or  is  capable  of?  " 

Each  word  she  spoke  stabbed  him  to  the  heart, 
plunged  a  knife  into  all  the  preconceived  ideas  by 
which  he  had  lived  and  which  made  women  sacred. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  blood  flowed  from  his  heart 
and  left  it  dry  and  aching.  She  became  a  stranger 
to  him,  a  stranger  who  had  ruthlessly  insulted  all  that 
he  held  sacred.  He  was  stung  to  the  quick,  and  for 
one  brief  moment  hatred  of  her  staggered  him.  This 
strange  feminine  apparition  that  had  suddenly  ap- 
peared before  him  and  boldly  and  defiantly  planted 
her  feet  upon  all  that  he  revered.  Then  she  became 
Page  again,  the  angel  woman  he  had  adored  all  his  life, 
flaunting  her  wings  in  his  face  and  making  ready  to 
fly  away  from  him.  A  sudden  fury  possessed  him 
as  he  laid  his  hands  heavily  on  her  shoulders  and  low- 
ered a  fiery  gaze  to  hers.  "  You've  got  to  love  me," 
he  cried,  "  got  to,  you  understand,  with  your  whole 
heart  and  soul,  so  that  nothing  else  counts  in  your 
life!" 

To  his  surprise,  she  laughed  in  his  face. 

In  a  flash,  while  stung  to  the  quick,  he  recognized 
that  a  new  battle  was  to  be  fought  if  he  hoped  to 
frustrate  Page's  intentions  and  win  her  —  and  no  ac- 
tual thought  of  renouncing  that  hope  had  occurred 
to  him  —  a  new  battle  that  involved  the  use  of  his 
brain  as  well  as  his  heart. 

He  was  not  only  to  dissuade  her  from  a  false  step, 
but  he  was  to  tear  down  and  make  her  trample  under 
her  own  feet  a  flag  that  she  had  raised  to  new  ideas 
of  existence  that  had  no  more  place  in  the  environ- 


38         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

ment  of  their  lives  than  had  the  song  of  birds  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea.  As  he  thought  thus,  a  new  feeling 
of  anger,  coupled  with  a  physical  passion  for  her,  be- 
fore unrecognized  or  not  admitted,  burnt  in  him  like  a 
flame,  while  outwardly  he  remained  as  passive  as  the 
stolid  earth  beneath  their  feet. 

Suddenly  a  sob  escaped  her,  and  she  attempted  to 
fling  herself  against  him,  but  he  gently  pushed  her 
from  him. 

It  was  past  eleven  o'clock.  All  about  them  was 
darkness,  with  the  little  flickering  gas  flames  of  the 
old  street  lamps  struggling  at  intervals.  In  front  of 
them  the  Tredegar  Iron  Works  Foundry  went  on  with 
its  work.  The  men  were  still  moving  about  in  the 
flames;  coming  as  though  out  of  the  earth,  long  rails 
of  red-hot  iron,  were  apparently  handled  with  their 
bare  hands. 

Dave's  eyes  were  fixed  on  this  scene,  but  his  mind 
had  awakened  to  action.  For  twenty-five  years  he 
had  lived  with  a  man's  dreams  but  without  definite 
purpose.  In  one  flash  with  beat  of  his  heart  at  a 
woman's  cruel  laugh,  it  came  to  him.  He  put  her  hand 
on  his  arm  and  led  her  away  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A    PRODUCT    OF    WAR 

AT  her  door,  he  parted  from  her  almost  without  a 
word,  and  walked  slowly  home. 

Acute  melancholy  oppressed  him.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  had  opposed  a  woman  by  the  use  of 
his  brain.  Had  he  taken  advantage  of  Page's  mood 
to  press  her  to  him  in  a  fierce  embrace  and  implant 
kisses  upon  her  lips  he  would  have  possessed  a  mo- 
mentary control  of  her.  But  he  had  recognized  in  a 
flash  that  this  would  have  been  to  put  himself  in  her 
power. 

To  control  Page,  through  his  love  and  magnetism, 
she  would  have  to  be  constantly  under  his  influence, 
in  his  presence.  That  being  out  of  the  question,  ap- 
parently, although  he  did  not  entirely  admit  it,  for  the 
present,  he  must  use  his  brain  as  a  weapon  against 
her  for  his  own  defense.  His  fury  spent,  this  sent 
a  little  spasm  of  pain  through  his  heart  such  as  the 
parent  feels  who  must  cruelly  correct  the  child,  or  the 
master  who  raises  the  whip  in  the  field  over  an  over- 
enthusiastic  and  unmanageable  hunting  dog.  It  would 
have  been  very  sweet  to  have  taken  advantage  of  her 
mood,  fold  her  to  his  heart  in  a  lover's  embrace  and 
enjoy  the  sweetness  of  lips  that  had  ever  since  he 
could  remember  been  to  him  a  tantalizing  challenge. 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  sense  of  victory  and  pride  in  the 
strength  he  had  manifested,  that  encouraged  and  lent 
him  ardor  as  to  possibilities  in  himself.  His  pace 

39 


40         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

quickened,  and  he  reached  his  home  only  half-con- 
scious of  having  covered  the  distance. 

As  he  entered  the  front  door  and  stood  in  the  old 
hall,  with  its  well-worn  oilcloth  covered  floor,  and 
ancient  massive  furniture,  a  feeling  of  weariness  at 
his  own  past  inactivity  overpowered  him.  Like  Page, 
he  was  a  war-product  and  the  inertia  of  his  vanquished 
land  had  been  a  part  of  his  existence. 

He  entered  the  library  where  a  low  light  was  always 
left  burning  for  him,  and  just  as  Page  had  sat  in  her 
little  attic  room  and  contemplated  her  environment,  he 
stood  here  contemplating  his. 

The  family  consisted  of  his  mother,  her  brother,  and 
himself. 

The  house  proper  belonged  to  his  Uncle  Randolph, 
who,  at  the  close  of  the  war,  closed  his  law  office,  re- 
moved all  his  books  to  his  home,  and  took  in  his  sister, 
widowed  through  the  war,  and  her  son  David. 

The  house  was  in  a  somewhat  dilapidated  condition, 
in  fact,  in  a  very  dilapidated  condition,  but  Uncle 
Randolph,  who  had  been  a  brilliant,  shrewd  lawyer, 
had  accumulated  some  wealth  outside  of  his  slaves,  and 
so  had  managed  to  retain  his  home.  The  wealth  had 
slipped  away,  but  the  house  remained  intact,  without 
mortgage,  and  the  only  struggle  connected  with  it  was 
meeting  the  taxes.  Beyond  the  use  of  the  house,  and 
the  donation  of  his  small  income,  Uncle  Randolph  did 
nothing.  Broken  in  spirit,  yet  resentful,  he  simply 
lived,  like  many  others  of  his  generation,  a  stubborn, 
practically  useless  existence. 

He  was  a  man  of  powerful  personality,  tall,  some- 
what inclined  to  stoutness,  with  a  scholarly,  majestic 
countenance.  He  did  absolutely  nothing  but  eat  his 
meals,  read  his  paper  and  his  law  books.  When  com- 


A  PRODUCT  OF  WAR  41 

pany  came,  he  occasionally  took  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion, but  often  it  was  only  a  glimpse  of  him,  seated  in 
his  old  high-backed  leather  chair,  reading,  that  was 
vouchsafed  them.  He  chewed  tobacco,  and  in  the 
summer  spat  over  the  rail  of  the  porch  and  in  the  win- 
ter into  the  fireplace. 

Very  much  had  been  done  for  David  by  his  mother 
and  his  Uncle  Randolph  all  his  life,  and  he  had  never 
been  able  to  convince  himself  that  he  was  worthy  of 
their  sacrifices.  In  fact,  his  young  eyes  had  gradually 
opened  upon  so  much  hopelessness  that  hopelessness 
had  become  a  part  of  his  childhood.  Bread  was  of  so 
much  consequence  that  it  was  quite  easy  for  him  to 
feel  that  everything  should  be  sacrificed  to  producing 
it.  If  ever  ambition  dawned,  as  it  often  did  like  a 
painful  flame  burning  in  his  brain,  he  stifled  it  as  some- 
thing of  which,  in  the  circumstances,  a  man  should  be 
ashamed,  as  a  kind  of  selfishness  not  to  be  tolerated. 
What  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  work,  work  with  his 
hands,  his  whole  body,  no  matter  what  at,  so  long  as 
he  was  of  use.  He  would  drive  a  street  car,  be  a 
brakeman  on  the  railroad,  be  a  foreman  in  a  factory  — 
what  did  it  matter  ?  He  resented  his  mother's  and  his 
Uncle  Ran's  restrictions,  their  forbidding  him  to  go 
out  as  his  friends  did  —  these  friends  who  were  heroes 
in  his  eyes,  who  worked  from  morning  till  night  at 
some  hard  and  uncongenial  occupation.  He  felt  that 
he  was  living  upon  them  like  an  invalid. 

The  days  when  a  man  could  be  an  idler  and  a  scholar 
were  over,  and  yet  that  was  the  life,  against  his  will, 
he  had  lived.  He  was  sick  of  daily  sacrifices  for  his 
sake.  At  six  years  of  age,  he  resented  his  mother's 
teaching  school  in  the  basement  that  he  might  have 
about  him  the  stimulation  of  other  pupils,  but  that  was 


42          THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

how  his  education  began,  and  to  this  day  that  gloomy 
room,  with  its  low  fire  and  his  mother's  patient,  fer- 
vent face,  stung  him.  When  the  day  arrived  for  him 
to  go  to  college  and  perfect  himself  in  law,  there  were 
two  pale  faces,  whose  problem  was  solved  by  his  Uncle 
Ran  mortgaging  the  plantation  upon  which  he  and  his 
forefathers  had  been  born.  The  burden  of  these  sac- 
rifices burnt  into  his  soul.  He  was  never  reconciled 
to  them. 

"  Mother,"  he  would  say  when  a  little  child,  "  how 
can  I  sit  upstairs  in  comfort  studying  while  you  are 
downstairs  washing  dishes  ?  " 

"  Because,"  she  would  answer  brightly,  "  you  are  the 
young  lord." 

And  then  he  would  reply  bitterly,  "  It  is  your  pride, 
mother,  that  makes  you  forbid  me  to  go  to  work,  and 
it  is  only  my  deference  to  it  that  controls  me." 

"  Suppose  it  is,  my  son,"  she  would  answer  gravely, 
"  since  it  is  all  that  is  left  me,  would  you  rob  me  of  it  ? 
I  brought  you  into  the  world,  David,  and  the  day  and 
hour  that  you  descend  to  menial  labor  you  will  send  me 
out  of  it." 

And  so  the  boy  plodded  on,  feeling  almost  at  times 
a  criminal,  ashamed  of  the  bread  he  ate  and  the  clothes 
he  wore. 

Up  to  the  present  time,  just  as  he  had  never  con- 
sciously put  his  brain  to  any  practical  use,  he  had  never 
turned  a  dollar.  It  was  partly  this  that  caused  Page, 
with  her  desperate  view  of  things,  to  be  blinded  to  the 
real  man.  He  knew  full  well  that  in  her  sight  he  was 
a  being  who  trod  the  world  apologetically  while  his 
brothers  were  fighting  the  good  fight  for  their  wives, 
their  mothers,  and  sisters.  She  had  said  some  sting- 
ing things  to  him,  things  that  had  brought  the  blood 


A  PRODUCT  OF  WAR  43 

to  his  dark,  handsome  face,  but  he  never  replied.  He 
felt  that  she  was  right. 

While  in  his  presence,  he  fascinated  her  as  he  fas- 
cinated all  sensitive  women,  by  his  melodious  voice, 
a  voice  that  penetrated  the  senses  like  a  narcotic  —  a 
flow  of  rhythmic  language,  and  a  kind  of  poetic  beauty 
that  one  associates  with  the  ideal  cavalier  and  that 
clung  to  the  eyes,  even  against  the  will. 

It  was  this  cavalier  beauty,  together  with  his  air  of 
delicate  distinction,  that  held  his  mother  captive,  so 
that  rather  than  see  those  finely  fashioned  hands  drive 
a  nail,  she  would,  in  secret,  have  hired  herself  out  to 
perform  any  service.  Page  fought  his  deference  to 
that  for  which  no  credit  was  due  him ;  his  mother  en- 
couraged and  feasted  herself  upon  it.  If  Dave  was 
conscious  of  it,  it  was  in  a  bitter  way  as  though  he 
himself  was  a  vanity  of  his  mother's  that  he  could  not 
insult.  He  nevertheless  appreciated  his  physical  gifts 
and  ability  to  charm,  and  he  rejoiced  in  his  character 
which  he  felt  could  not  be  tarnished.  A  vein  of  hu- 
mor that  brightened  many  a  situation,  especially  for 
his  mother,  ran  through  him,  and  an  abounding  love 
for  what  was  fine  in  people  kept  up  his  spirits.  He 
was,  in  fact,  much  of  a  Virginia  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  facing  life,  the  difficult  problem  of  life,  in 
which  that  school  no  longer  actually  counted. 

He  took  his  seat  and  began  to  study  himself  and  his 
environment. 

Page  had  once  spoken  of  his  home,  in  his  presence, 
as  a  prison.  Was  it?  He  could  not  admit  this  and 
his  eyes  filled,  out  of  very  love  of  it.  It  was,  he  ad- 
mitted, gloomy  and  ponderous,  but  it  had  ever  been 
illumined  by  that  peculiar  passionate  adoration  that 
Southern  families  expend  upon  one  another.  Each 


44          THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

of  the  three  beings  of  this  household  was,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  other,  perfection,  three  elect  ones,  whom  fate 
had  dealt  unkindly  with  and  who,  in  consequence, 
must  be  very  tender  to  one  another.  His  mother  he 
regarded  as  a  saint. 

That  Uncle  Randolph  •  was  a  grumbler  no  one  at- 
tempted to  deny;  but  his  grumbling  was  impersonal 
and  directed  against  the  "  Yankees "  and  conditions 
generally.  It  was  a  way  of  giving  vent  to  arrested 
energies.  His  views  were  the  views  of  the  genera- 
tion that  had  preceded  him,  and  nothing  could  change 
these  views  and  nothing  could  reconcile  him  to  exist- 
ing conditions.  Everything  was  right  before  the  war 
and  everything  was  wrong  since  the  war,  and  there  the 
whole  matter  ended.  Dave  had  imbibed  these  teach- 
ings from  his  infancy,  and  to-night  in  the  face  of 
Page's  outburst  he  had  no  doubt  that  in  many  respects 
they  were  narrow. 

He  pondered  thus  a  long  while,  seated  in  the  low 
arm  chair,  with  his  dark  head  slightly  lowered,  his  eyes 
bright  with  excitement,  environed  by  the  solemn  im- 
pressive furniture,  the  gloomy  wall  papering,  with  fall 
leaves  of  pale  gold  and  Launcelot  riding  away  from 
Guinivere;  rows  upon  rows  of  law-books  imprisoned 
under  glass  doors  in  the  tall  mahogany  book-cases,  and 
the  whole  lit  up  half  dismally  by  one  lowered  gas 
burner  of  the  large  crystal  chandelier  that  always  jin- 
gled like  a  faint  orchestra  to  every  footstep. 

All  these  things  penetrated  him  with  a  sense  of  fit- 
ness, and  his  views  of  what  Page's  life  should  be  even 
apart  from  himself  remained  unchanged.  If  they 
walked  the  narrow  road  of  conventionality,  as  Page 
had  said,  if  the  keynote  of  existence  was,  as  she  had 
also  said,  repression  and  the  merging  of  the  individual 


45 

into  ideas,  it  was  best  for  the  community  as  a  whole. 
He  could  see  no  flaw,  even  if  the  road  was  narrow, 
and  all  marched  to  the  same  step.  It  was  a  clean 
road,  bounded  by  conventions  that  had  for  their  foun- 
dation, first  of  all,  man's  protection  of  the  fireside. 
His  belief  in  woman  as  a  wife  and  mother,  finding 
her  sole  happiness  in  her  husband  and  her  children, 
could  not  be  shaken. 

Page  was  not  the  first  wild  colt  broken  to  harness, 
and  sometimes  this  was  accomplished  through  gentle- 
ness. 

He  arose,  put  out  the  gas,  and  ascended  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   MOTHER 

NOT  many  nights  passed  without  a  little  visit,  short 
or  long,  as  the  case  might  be,  to  his  mother's  chamber 
before  finally  retiring  for  the  night,  so  with  no  sur- 
prise in  the  smile  that  lit  up  her  face  as  she  saw  him 
in  the  doorway,  she  greeted  him. 

David  always  felt  upon  entering  his  mother's  room 
that  he  was  entering  a  sanctuary;  time  and  her  own 
pure  existence  in  it  rendered  it  sacred  to  him.  It  had 
to-night  its  accustomed  aspect  of  the  hour,  and,  as 
was  the  case  in  the  library,  nothing  in  it  during  his 
lifetime  had  changed  or,  he  felt,  would  ever  change. 
The  pieces  of  furniture  were  as  fixed  in  their  niche 
as  the  mantel-piece  and  windows  in  theirs,  and,  in  Da- 
vid's eyes,  had  a  personality  equal  to  that  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  family. 

The  bed,  a  large  teester  one,  was  turned  down  for 
the  night,  and  the  threadbare  Marseilles  counterpane 
and  large  day  pillows  were  in  their  accustomed  place, 
where  they  were  put  to  rest  every  night  as  regularly 
as  the  family  went  to  bed.  The  thin  worn  blankets, 
yellow  from  age,  with  pale  blue  borders  barely  visible, 
were  actually  members  of  the  family,  and  in  his  eyes, 
respected  as  such.  They  were  growing  old  with  their 
generation,  getting  thin,  and  giving  out  little  heat, 
getting  worthless,  in  fact,  but  they  were  kept  sweet  and 
clean  just  as  some  old,  old  ladies  that  David  knew,  and 
their  place  on  the  bed  was  just  as  assured  as  that  of 

46 


THE  MOTHER  47 

the  old  ladies  in  their  little  rockers.  Dave  wondered 
once  how  he  would  feel  if  he  should  enter  his  mother's 
room  at  night  and  find  a  pair  of  new  blankets  on  the 
bed.  Certainly  not  comfortable ;  it  would  be  as  though 
they  had  joined  the  ranks  of  the  modern  vulgar  and 
performed  an  unpardonable  offense  to  the  old.  That 
Mrs.  Lee  covered  herself  in  very  cold  weather  with 
flannel  skirts  and  woolen  wrappers  was  an  open  secret 
never  referred  to.  She  always  had  on,  at  this  hour, 
one  of  these  woolen  wrappers.  Just  as  she  arranged 
her  hair  always  in  the  same  fashion  these  wrappers 
were  always  cut  by  the  same  pattern.  They  were  not 
pretty,  but  they  were  a  part  of  her  and  nothing  could 
actually  mar  her  frozen  beauty. 

While  not  of  an  affectionate  nature,  she  was  re- 
splendently  endowed  with  the  power  of  loving,  and 
this  passionate  giving  of  herself  to  the  few  she  selected 
to  hold  dear,  illumined  her  being.  There  seemed  to 
be  a  kind  of  resentment  against  an  unjust  fate  per- 
vading her  soul,  a  resentment  that  manifested  itself 
in  strict  obedience  to  it.  An  old  ribbon,  worn  waist, 
or  pair  of  worthless  shoes,  would  have  bought  the 
services  of  the  colored  people,  glad  to  work  for  such 
things,  or  a  meal  or  two,  but  she  never  availed  herself 
of  such  opportunities.  She  retained  their  old  cook, 
a  little  grandson  of  the  old  woman  helped  her  in  the 
house,  and  with  her  own  delicate  hands,  she  did  the 
rest.  A  stubborn  life  but  a  patient  life  and  a  holy  life. 

Downstairs  in  the  gloomy  old  parlor,  the  window 
shutters  of  which  were  rarely  opened,  and  where  in 
winter  a  fire  was  rarely  lit,  there  was  a  portrait  of  her 
in  a  black  velvet  bodice,  with  curls  on  one  white  shoul- 
der and  a  tea  rosebud  over  her  ear  above  the  curls. 

This  vision  of  his  mother  always  mystified  Dave. 


48         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

There  was  a  roguish  smile  on  the  pictured  face  such 
as  he  had  never  seen  on  the  living  face.  He  had  heard 
that  no  one  ever  saw  it  from  the  day  they  brought  his 
father  home  from  the  war,  and  laid  him  before  her, 
dead.  Before  that,  he  was  told,  it  had  always  been 
roguish,  piquant,  merry;  that  her  eyes  sparkled  and 
that  her  laugh  went  with  her  like  a  bird's  song.  For 
his  part,  he  had  only  seen  her  as  a  patient  Madonna, 
a  creature  dead  to  all  worldly  thoughts,  on  fire  with 
love  for  himself,  who  punctiliously  performed  du- 
ties for  his  sake. 

She  was  seated  to-night  as  usual  beside  a  round 
mahogany  center-table  that  held  her  Bible,  a  faded 
framed  photograph  of  her  dead  husband,  in  his  Con- 
federate uniform,  and  a  little  daguerreotype  of  David 
taken  in  his  seventh  year. 

Over  at  her  back  was  the,  apparently  patient,  old 
washstand  that  had  been  holding  all  these  years,  with 
great  caution,  her  bridal  china-set,  of  which  not  one 
piece  had  been  broken.  There  had  been  times  in  Da- 
vid's life  when  he  had  trembled  at  the  thought  of 
knocking  off  a  piece  of  that  china,  and  even  now  he 
passed  it  in  awe.  Everything  in  the  room  was  seri- 
ously respected  by  him,  from  the  darns  of  the  flowers 
on  the  lace  curtains  that  hung  majestically  from  the 
deep  gilt  cornice  and  had  two  heavy  cords,  once  red 
but  now  a  rusty  brown,  to  the  pin-cushion  well  fitted 
in  a  silver  filigree  frame.  Sometimes  Dave  smiled  at 
the  profound  respect  with  which  he  treated  these 
things. 

"  I  wonder,  mother,"  he  said,  entering  the  room  and 
taking  his  stand  in  front  of  her,  "  if  there  is  in  all  the 
world  a  woman  as  lovely  as  you  are  this  moment  in 
this  quaint  old  room  of  yours  ?  " 


THE  MOTHER  49 

"  Or  a  woman  who  has  such  a  handsome  son  ?  "  she 
returned  brightly. 

He  seated  himself  comfortably  in  a  frayed  arm- 
chair that  was  always  placed  for  him. 

"  Am  I  so  handsome  ?  "  he  asked  her,  smiling. 

"  That  is  a  silly  question,  David." 

"  To  put  to  you,  yes,  Mother!" 

"Well,  my  darling?" 

"  Why  can't  you  make  Page  see  me  with  your 
eyes  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  does."     Mrs.  Lee's  voice  was  cold. 

Dave  answered  this  a  little  irritably.  "  You  know 
very  well  that  she  does  not ;  that  in  her  eyes  I  am  not 
the  most  praiseworthy  of  mortals.  Perhaps  I  am  not, 
but  I  would  like  to  have  her  blinded  to  all  my  defects, 
deceived  as  you  are,  just  that  she  might  love  me  one 
hour  as  you  do !  " 

"  You  love  her  so,  David  ?  "  she  inquired  sharply. 

"  I  have  always  loved  her,  mother,  you  know  that!  " 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  in  which  the  heart 
of  mother  and  son  refused  to  respond,  and  then  Dave 
repeated : 

"  I  have  always  loved  her,  but  to-night  a  change  has 
come  over  me  —  I  want  her  by  my  side  —  by  your 
side ;  I  want  to  bring  her  home." 

"Why  this  change,  David?"  Her  voice  was  still 
sharp. 

"  Because  she  needs  my  protection." 

"  Why  ?     How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Because  she  wants  to  escape  it." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  Lee  stared 
at  her  son,  and  then  he  broke  it  rather  vehemently. 

"  Besides,  mother,"  he  cried,  "  there  has  come  over 
me  all  of  a  sudden  to-night  the  realization  that  I  am 


50         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

no  longer  a  boy,  but  a  man,  and  when  a  man  feels  that, 
that  he  is  a  man,  he  wants  the  responsibilities  of  a  man 
—  he  wants  a  wife ! "  He  had  flushed  a  little  and 
spoke  with  embarrassment  but  firmly. 

His  mother  paled,  but  she  made  no  reply,  and  pres- 
ently he  continued:  "You  know  what  my  life  has 
been,  mother !  You  know  that  I  have  lived  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  my  ideas,  but  in  deference  to  yours  and 
Uncle  Ran's.  Up  to  now,  I  have  never  allowed  my- 
self to  be  respectful  to  my  own  rights.  My  forces 
have  all  been  husbanded,  waiting  for  the  opportunity 
that  would  satisfy  both  you  and  him.  Your  existence 
with  its  menial  occupations  and  Uncle  Ran's  sacrifices 
in  my  behalf  have  held  me,  as  it  were,  in  your  debt. 
Complete  sacrifice  of  self  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  price 
of  my  life.  Naturally  this  has  weighed  upon  me,  but 
you  must  not  feel  that  my  life  has  been  unhappy.  Far 
from  it.  The  world,  the  physical  world  apart  from 
humanity  and  humanity's  efforts  in  it,  has  always  been 
to  me,  in  spite  of  my  dissatisfaction  with  myself,  so 
emphatically  comforting  and  uplifting,  that,  unless  I 
fought  it,  I  was  often  thrown  into  a  kind  of  ecstasy 
against  my  will.  When  I  went  to  college,  temptations 
sprang  up  about  me,  temptations  to  drink  and  gamble, 
many  kinds  of  temptations  to  which  my  friends  care- 
lessly surrendered  themselves,  but  to  which  I  was  never 
tempted  to  yield.  Gratifying  these  inclinations  cost 
money,  and  how  could  I  spend  money  on  myself  when 
you  lived  as  you  did  and  Uncle  Ran  as  he  did  —  for 
my  sake.  Sometimes  looking  back  on  those  college 
days,  I  marvel  at  myself.  All  that  other  men  have 
given  vent  to,  I  have  never  given  vent  to,  and  so 
stored  up  within  me  are  all  my  virtues  and  vices.  To- 
night, I  want  to  make  my  own  acquaintance.  I  want 


THE  MOTHER  51 

to  confront  everything  good  or  bad  in  me  and  see  how 
I  can  use  it.  A  recognition  of  self  has  occurred  that 
makes  me  eager  about  myself  and  the  world  and  eager 
to  take  a  part  in  it.  I  feel  that  my  first  step  is  to  try 
to  make  Page  my  wife."  A  burning  flush  sprang  into 
his  face.  "  I  saw  Page  to-night,  mother  —  I  want  her 
here!" 

"  That  should  be  very  simple,"  answered  the  mother 
with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm. 

"  Not  so  simple  as  you  imagine,  mother !  " 

"  She  should  consider  it  an  honor  to  be  your  wife!  " 
Mrs.  Lee's  cheeks  flushed. 

Dave  leaned  forward,  took  one  of  her  hands  and 
kissed  it.  "  Your  view,  mother,"  he  said  absently. 
"  If  I  ever  win  Page,  it  will  not  be  until  I  have  won 
honors  for  myself  —  I  know  that." 

"  Then  she  doesn't  love  you,  David." 

"  I  have  never  appeared  worthy  of  her  love.  Per- 
haps I  shouldn't  feel  to  her  as  I  do  if  she  had  been 
satisfied  with  the  kind  of  man  I  have  been  up  to  the 
present  time.  Page  is  an  idealist,  and  that  sense  in  her 
must  be  appealed  to.  I  have  always  felt  myself  so 
far  removed  from  her  ideal,  that  I  have  intruded  upon 
her  half  apologetically.  I  have  stifled  my  joy  in  her 
as  I  have  stifled  my  joy  in  existence  itself.  I  have 
never  felt  the  right  to  it.  Page's  happiness,"  he  went 
on,  "  lies  in  creating  dreams.  I  have  always  known 
this  and  that  her  nature  demands  a  certain  kind  of 
toleration,  the  toleration  that  the  higher  temperament 
always  demands ;  toleration  of  an  unreal  existence  sur- 
rounding the  real  existence  and  that  is  as  necessary  to 
her  as  Uncle  Ran's  tobacco  is  to  him !  " 

"  But  that  is  absurd.  Why  should  Page  be  differ- 
ent and  have  erratic  ideas  ?  " 


52          THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  Times  have  changed,  mother." 

"  Times  never  change  for  a  lady,  David !  " 

"  Page  doesn't  think  that  way,  mother,  and  to  make 
clear  to  her  that  she  is  wrong  is  a  difficult  task  and  one 
that  I  want  you  to  help  me  in.  She  wants  to  become 
an  authoress,  and  she  considers  it  perfectly  proper  to 
attempt  in  that  way  to  make  her  own  living.  She  is 
obsessed  by  that  idea  and  seems  possessed  of  a  mental 
nausea  of  the  poverty  that  she  is  surrounded  by  and 
that  has  become  her  portion.  Here,"  Dave  took  in 
the  room  with  his  hand,  "  nothing  offends,  and  so  we 
cannot  realize  wrhat  she  has  suffered.  These  old  things 
about  us,  that  have  always  been  about  us,  have  be- 
come through  age  and  association  almost  sacred ;  they 
are  so  much  a  part  of  you,  your  very  spirit  breathes  so 
through  them  that,"  Dave  smiled,  "if  an  angelic  im- 
age of  you,  a  medallion,  should  one  morning  be  en- 
graved on  every  single  thing  in  this  house,  it  would 
not  surprise  me.  But  Page,  poor  little  orphaned  waif, 
knocked  about  from  pillar  to  post,  and  finally  landed 
in  an  attic  room  at  Mr.  Bartlett's !  Can  she,  with  her 
fine  imagination,  her  sensitive  nature,  be  blamed  for 
wanting  to  fly  away  —  even  for  wanting  to  steal  into 
the  victorious  enemy's  camp,  if  merely  to  behold  its 
splendor?  " 

"  You  mean  her  preposterous  talk  of  going  to  New 
York?  "  gasped  Mrs.  Lee. 

"  Yes." 

"  But,  Dave,  it  isn't  proper  for  Page  to  talk  of  go- 
ing to  New  York." 

"  Of  course  not,  mother,  and  that  is  what  has  aroused 
me  to-night.  I've  got  to  prevent  her  from  going. 
That's  why  I  want  to  bring  her  here !  The  conditions 
of  her  life  are  enough  to  make  her  want  to  fly  from 


THE  MOTHER  53 

thence  anywhere.  Neither  you  nor  I  can  deny,  that 
except  to  the  strongest  of  heart,  the  poverty  and  nar- 
rowness of  our  social  life  to-day  is  suffocation.  Even 
though  we  are  far  better  circumstanced  than  Page, 
think  of  the  circumscribed  conditions  and  monotony  of 
your  life,  Uncle  Ran's  and  my  own!  " 

"  David !     You  are  echoing  Page's  sentiments." 

"  Perhaps.  But  I  tell  you  this,  mother:  there  isn't 
anything  unusual  that  Page  might  want  to  do  that  I 
couldn't  understand !  " 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  your  love  for  her,  my 
son,"  she  remarked  coldly. 

"  Don't  you  love  her,  mother?  " 

The  two  pairs  of  dark  velvety  eyes  so  alike,  yet  in 
this  moment  so  different,  met  and  met  fearlessly. 

"  I  am  fond  of  Page,  David,  very  fond  of  her,  and 
I  can  understand  your  infatuation  for  her.  She  is 
beautiful  and  very  interesting,  but  she  is  not,"  and 
Mrs.  Lee's  voice  rose,  "  the  girl  I  would  choose  for  your 
wife!" 

"And  whom  would  you  choose,  mother?" 

"  You  wish  me  to  answer  frankly  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Martha  Morton,"  answered  Mrs.  Lee  demurely 
and  with  grave  dignity. 

To  her  surprise,  Dave  burst  into  a  hearty  peal  of 
laughter,  and  then  leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  he 
took  her  face  in  his  hands  and  looked  mischievously 
into  her  eyes.  "  Mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  are 
jealous  of  Page!  You  want  me  to  marry  a  girl  who 
will  look  after  my  comfort,  but  whom  you  are  quite 
sure  I  will  never  love!  " 

Tears  gushed  to  Mrs.  Lee's  eyes  and  rolled  in 
streams  down  her  cheeks,  and  Dave,  suddenly  over- 


54         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

powered  by  this  widowed  life  that  had  centered  itself 
upon  him,  sacrificed  for  him,  worked  for  him,  and 
upon  whom  he  was  inflicting  a  keen  blow,  dropped 
down  in  front  of  her  and  drew  her  into  his  arms  pas- 
sionately and  tenderly. 

For  a  moment  she  clung  to  him  convulsively,  and 
then  lifted  her  head  and  faced  him.  "  David,"  she 
cried,  "  this  has  been  the  hour  of  my  life  that  I  have 
dreaded  and  put  off;  the  hour  of  your  serious  confes- 
sion of  love,  but  it  has  come,  and  I  am  glad  it  is  over ! 
And  — "  she  hesitated,  but  for  an  instant  only,  "  I  find 
that  I  am  ready  for  it !  I  want  the  last  drop  of  hap- 
piness that  a  man  can  know  to  overflow  your  cup!  If 
it  is  Page,  I  want  you  to  marry  Page !  " 

"  Of  course  you  do,  darling  mother!  "  Dave  cried, 
clasping  her  again  in  his  arms,  and  then  he  kissed  her 
gently  good-night  and  left  her. 

When  he  reached  his  room,  he  struck  a  match  and, 
lighting  the  gas  of  the  little  burner  at  the  end  of  the 
mantel-piece,  he  glanced  at  himself  in  the  mirror.  Sud- 
denly he  started.  It  was  as  though,  since  he  last  saw 
himself,  he  had  been  born  again.  He  leaned  forward 
and  looked  keenly  at  his  illumined,  eager  face.  Then 
instinctively  lowering  the  gas,  he  walked  to  the  win- 
dow and,  raising  the  shade,  looked  out  on  the  moonlight 
night. 

How  peaceful  the  old  city  was  with  its  inhabitants 
asleep.  Somehow  it  comforted  him  to  feel  that  they 
were  asleep,  that  for  the  hour  tired  hearts  were  rest- 
ing, tired  brains  unconscious. 

And  how  dear  they  all  seemed  to  him,  living  alike, 
as  Page  had  declared,  adherers  to  old  laws  and  old  cus- 
toms for  which  any  one  of  them  would  be  ready  to  lay 
down  life. 


THE  MOTHER  55 

Finally  he  turned  into  the  room,  raised  the  light 
again,  and  began  to  undress.  As  he  did  so  the  words 
of  his  mother  concerning  Martha  Morton  suggested 
an  idea  to  him  that  caused  him  a  little  flutter  about  the 
heart.  He  would  use  Martha  Morton  as  a  means  of 
stimulating  Page's  jealousy.  It  was  a  trick  but  a 
harmless  one,  provided  Martha  was  made  acquainted 
with  his  purpose.  The  following  evening  he  called  on 
Martha. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   GRIM    VISITOR 

THE  morning  after  Page's  conversation  with  Dave, 
Sadie  May's  continued  crying  of  late  was  explained. 
The  child  was  ill.  The  night  before,  Mrs.  Bartlett 
said  she  went  to  bed  with  fever,  and  the  doctor  had 
pronounced  it  scarlet  fever. 

All  the  children,  the  four  boys,  by  the  advice  of  the 
doctor,  had  been  sent  away  to  Mrs.  Bartlett's  sister. 
They  were  marched  off  like  little  soldiers,  escorted  by 
a  next  door  neighbor  who  had  been  all  the  morning 
scrubbing  and  dressing  them.  Each  had  on  his  Sunday 
suit,  a  big  flaring  tie  and  a  ruffled  collar.  They  were 
as  stiff,  in  their  Sunday  clothes  and  new  shoes,  as  hardy 
warriors  indeed  and  looked  to  Page  most  pitiful.  Per- 
haps, she  thought,  they  too  were  marching  to  death ! 
She  hoped  they  hadn't  caught  it,  and  oh,  she  prayed 
that  Sadie  May  wouldn't  die.  How  could  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett stand  it ! 

The  house  was  painfully  still,  and  as  was  the  fashion 
with  this  class  of  people,  all  the  blinds  in  the  front  were 
closed.  A  request  came  to  her  to  close  hers.  She  did 
so  and  had  barely  a  crack  to  see  through  as  she  sat  writ- 
ing. It  was  bad  enough  for  her  before,  but  now  with 
this  impending  calamity,  it  was  unbearable.  She  put 
aside  her  writing  and  went  down  to  see  the  child. 
Poor  little  Sadie  May  was  scarcely  recognizable;  her 
face  was  red  and  swollen  but  she  had  on  her  best  gown 
with  lace  on  it  and  her  mother  called  her  attention  to  it, 

56 


THE  GRIM  VISITOR  57 

and  brought  out  her  new  hat  covered  with  daisies, 
which  she  said,  wringing  her  hands,  she  knew  Sadie 
May  would  never  wear  again. 

Her  grief  was  terrible  to  witness,  and  Page  standing 
there  in  the  little  darkened  room  saw  all  this  woman's 
hopes  in  life  slipping  away  with  this  child,  whom  she 
recognized  as  desperately  ill.  Mrs.  Bartlett  turned 
excitedly  to  Page  after  the  little  hat  had  been 
put  away,  and  told  her  that  not  one  Sunday  had  passed 
over  Sadie  May's  head  when  she  had  not  been 
dressed  fit  for  a  princess  to  see.  Page  knew  she  be- 
lieved it. 

The  next  day  Sadie  May  grew  worse  and  the  doctor 
gave  no  hope.  Page  was  up  nearly  all  night  and 
had  been  in  the  room  most  of  the  day.  There  had  been 
a  continuous  stream  of  visitors  and  Page  marveled  at 
this  strange  world  that  had  existed  in  Richmond  un- 
known to  her  —  people  entirely  out  of  her  set,  out  of 
any  set,  just  people  who  seemed  to  spring  up  out  of 
the  earth  with  hearts  and  tears  and  kindness.  Mrs. 
Bartlett  was  beside  herself  with  grief.  She  declared 
over  and  over  that  God  had  punished  her  for  having 
loved  the  child  too  much  and  her  promises  to  the  Al- 
mighty provided  Sadie  May  was  spared  to  her  were 
harrowing. 

Page,  always  analytical,  marveled  also  at  the  an- 
guish a  human  heart  could  experience  over  an  object 
so  unimportant  as  little  Sadie  May  had  always  seemed 
to  her.  The  child's  father  looked  like  a  man  suddenly 
struck  dumb.  He  just  sat  and  stared  at  his  wife's  rav- 
ings. In  the  night  a  terrible  shriek  reached  Page  and 
she  knew  that  Sadie  May  must  be  dead.  She  lay 
awake  a  greater  part  of  the  night  thinking  until  it 
seemed  to  her  finally  that  the  world  itself  was  but  God's 


58          THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

battlefield  and  that  unseen  soldiers  slew,  indiscrimi- 
nately, even  the  little  children. 

The  following  day  poor  Sadie  May  was  laid  out  in 
a  small  white  coffin  in  the  parlor.  The  coffin  was  an 
expensive  one.  She  had  on  her  white  dress  trimmed  in 
lace  and  pink  ribbons.  They  put  a  wreath  of  flowers 
on  her  head  and  three  lilies  in  her  hands.  Sadie  May 
was  three  the  day  she  died.  Upstairs  her  mother  was 
sitting  with  one  of  Sadie  May's  little  shoes  in  her  hand. 
She  wasn't  crying;  they  couldn't  make  her  cry.  Her 
husband  carried  the  shoe  an  hour  before  and  put  it  in 
her  hands  thinking  it  would  make  her  cry,  but  it  didn't. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  forgotten  Sadie  May. 

Sadie  May's  death  made  such  an  impression  on  Page, 
and  the  house  after  the  funeral  seemed  so  desolate  that 
she  decided  to  spend  a  few  days  at  her  Cousin  Ed- 
mund's, so  she  packed  an  old  carpet  bag  and  went. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  MASTER  IN  THE  HOUSE 

SHE  found  them  in  the  midst  of  preparations,  such 
as  they  were  with  their  meager  means,  for  Emily's 
marriage.  Emily  was  the  oldest  of  the  children,  eight 
in  number,  and  had  recently  finished  her  eighteenth 
year. 

Page  thought  Emily  looked  pale  and  her  heart  sank 
as  she  looked  into  the  sad,  startled  eyes.  It  was  very 
unnatural  for  Emily  to  look  pale.  She  had  always 
been  a  plump  girl,  with  cheeks  like  roses.  She  was 
now  like  a  pallid  camelia. 

The  third  morning  after  her  arrival,  entering  her 
Cousin  Mary's  room  suddenly,  she  discovered  her  try- 
ing to  check  her  tears  and  embroider  Emily's  little  wed- 
ding petticoat  at  the  same  time. 

"  Cousin  Mary,"  she  asked,  drawing  a  chair  beside 
her,  "  why  do  you  allow  Emily  to  marry  Robert 
Hughes  when  you  know  she  doesn't  love  him  and  that 
it  is  breaking  her  heart?  " 

"  It  is  breaking  my  heart  too,  Page,"  answered  the 
mother  quickly. 

"  Then  why  do  you  permit  it?  " 

"  It's  her  father,  my  dear." 

"  But  it  isn't  right !  Emily  had  better  try  to  do 
something  to  support  herself!  " 

Cousin  Mary  threw  up  her  hands.  "  Support  her- 
self!  Why,  Page,  Mr.  Fairfax  says  he  would  rather 
see  her  begging  than  working.  He  thinks  the  only  re- 

59 


60         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

spectable  thing  for  a  poor  girl  to  do  is  to  marry.  Mar- 
riage he  declares  under  any  circumstances  is  better  for 
a  girl  than  work;  he  thinks  it  disgraceful  for  a  woman 
to  make  her  own  living.  He  is  shocked  at  you,  my 
dear,  for  entertaining  the  very  thought  of  such  a  thing ! 
He  says  never  mind  who  the  man  is,  whether  he  is  good 
or  bad,  if  he  is  the  only  one,  marry.  Marriage  is  re- 
spectable and  nothing  else  is,  nothing  whatsoever,  for  a 
woman !  " 

"  But  Cousin  Mary,  this  is  terrible ;  I  would  oppose 
him  in  such  notions !  " 

Mrs.  Fairfax's  face  took  on  a  look  of  terror.  "  Op- 
pose your  Cousin  Edmund,  Page!  Why,  my  dear,  I 
would  as  soon  think  of  opposing  God !  I've  never  done 
such  a  thing  in  my  life." 

"  And,  so,"  said  Page,  a  little  white  in  the  face, 
"  you're  going  to  stand  by  and  let  Emily  be  sacrificed  ?  " 

"  My  child,  I  can't  help  myself." 

"  I  think  it's  barbarous !  "  exclaimed  Page. 

"  A  man  must  be  the  ruler  in  his  house,"  said 
Cousin  Mary  dismally  as  she  took  up  Emily's  little  pet- 
ticoat. 

"  Cousin  Mary,"  said  Page,  "  there  are  some  ideas 
in  Virginia  that  are  abhorrent  to  me.  Aren't  we  ever 
going  to  change  at  all  ?  " 

"  To  think  of  such  a  thing,  Page,  is  almost  sacrile- 
gious." 

Cousin  Mary  forced  her  gentle  face  into  sternness. 
"  I  think  it's  right  for  a  woman  to  abide  by  her  hus- 
band, no  matter  what  his  views  are,"  she  said  coldly. 
"  I  was  raised  that  way.  Whatever  Mr.  Fairfax  does 
is  right,"  and  Mrs.  Fairfax's  lips  closed  firmly. 

"If  hearts  are  broken  ?  "  demanded  Page  hotly. 

"  My  child,   the  wind   is   tempered  to  the   shorn 


THE  MASTER  IN  THE  HOUSE          61 

lamb  and  Emily  can  always  go  to  God  for  comfort!  " 
Page  looked  at  the  gentle  face  and  tears  filled  her  eyes. 
At  this  moment  her  Cousin  Mary  was  to  her  like  a 
dumb  driven  animal  questioning  nothing. 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  she  said,  the  tears  overflowing, 
"  and  she  has  loved  Fielding  Peyton  all  her  life." 

"  Yes,"  said  Cousin  Mary  drearily,  "  I  know  she 
has." 

"  Is  it  true  Cousin  Edmund  denied  Fielding  the 
house?" 

"  It  is,  Page,  and  his  mother  wrote  Mr.  Fairfax  a 
letter  thanking  him.  She  said  that  with  herself  on  his 
hands  and  his  aunt  and  five  sisters,  Fielding  couldn't 
afford  a  wife.  There  is  no  hope  for  them,  poor  chil- 
dren, and  they  know  it.  Ah!  If  Fielding  were  only 
different;  but  what  is  he?  A  dreamer.  What  has  he 
to  offer  Emily?  A  tall  graceful  form,  a  pair  of  dark, 
sorrowful,  hopeless  eyes,  and  some  pieces  of  poetry 
that  he  composes  to  her." 

"And  a  heart  so  full  of  love,  it  would  make  her  feel 
a  queen !  "  exclaimed  Page.  "  Fielding  may  be  a 
dreamer,  but  he  works  very  hard  too !  He  follows  the 
plow  all  day  long  in  the  broiling  sun,  he  hauls  the  wood 
and  ice  in  the  winter  and  cuts  the  wood,  ah!  What 
doesn't  he  do,  poor  fellow !  Last  summer  I  was  visit- 
ing there ;  he  came  out  of  that  scorching  sun  to  where  I 
was,  under  a  tree,  and,  leaning  on  the  fence,  talked  to 
me.  I  have  never  gotten  over  it.  Oh !  I  wish  he  had 
not  talked  to  me.  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  head.  He 
told  me  what  he  felt  capable  of  and  what  he  had  to  do, 
and  that  he  knew  Emily  was  lost  to  him.  The  day, 
Cousin  Mary,  even  in  the  shade  of  the  tree,  was  hot.  I 
looked  on  the  scorching  field  and  at  the  old  mule  that 
was  hitched  to  the  plow,  and  I  told  him  I  didn't  see  how 


62         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

he  could  stand  it.  His  only  answer  was  to  point  to  the 
house  where  all  those  eight  women  were." 

"  Mother,"  at  this  moment  cried  one  of  the  children, 
putting  his  head  in  the  door,  "  the  sugar's  here  for  the 
candy  pulling." 

"  Go  and  help  them  fix  things,  will  you,  Page  ?  I 
forgot  to  tell  you  that  Emily  is  having  a  little  party  to- 
night to  say  good-by  to  her  friends.  She  wanted  to 
have  something  and  a  sugar  stew  was  the  cheapest.  If 
David  Lee  comes  be  nice  to  him,  my  dear.  Dave  can 
support  you;  there  is  no  reason  why  you  two  should 
not  marry." 

Page  flushed.  "  Cousin  Mary,  why  does  everyone 
say  that  to  me?"  she  asked  impatiently.  "Why  is 
everyone  trying  to  force  me  to  marry  Dave  ?  " 

"  Because,  my  dear,  David  loves  you  and  because  he 
is  the  most  promising  young  man  in  Richmond.  Mr. 
Fairfax  says  so." 


CHAPTER  XI 

CONFLICTING    EMOTIONS 

THE  day  was  spent  in  arranging  for  the  party. 
Once,  while  Page  and  Emily  were  piling  the  apples  in 
the  silver  baskets,  Emily  turned  impulsively,  clasped 
Page  in  her  arms,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Page,"  she  cried,  "  darling  Cousin  Page ;  they  are 
forcing  me  into  it,  and  I  wish  I  were  dead !  " 

"  Then  why  do  you,  Emily?  " 

"  What  can  I  do?  "  Emily  cried.  "  And  I  want  to 
—  I  want  to !  Everybody  will  be  comfortable,  father 
can  have  what  he  wants  on  the  table,  you  know  how 
hard  it  is  for  him  to  do  without  things,  and  I  do  want 
to,  I  could  die  for  father  and  mother  and  the  boys,  but 
oh !  why  can't  it  be  a  quick  death ;  why  can't  I  be  shot 
for  them  as  our  soldiers  were  for  us;  why  can't  I  be 
burned  at  the  stake  —  that  would  be  quickly  over ;  but 
oh !  my  God,  Page,  this  living  death !  " 

"  Do  you  hate  him  so,  Emily  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  hate  him ;  he  is  so  good,  so  kind, 
such  a  splendid  man!  I  don't  hate  him,  but  when  I 
think  of  his  touch, —  that  he  can  lay  his  hands  on  my 
shoulders  —  the  other  day  he  did  and  for  the  first  time 
he  asked  me  to  let  him  kiss  me,  and  I  shrieked  and  ran 
out  of  the  room.  Poor  fellow.  Poor  fellow!" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  stood  sobbing. 
And  between  her  sobs  Page  heard  her  murmuring, 
"  Fieldy,  Fieldy !  Oh,  Fieldy,  my  love !  " 

At  night  quite  a  gay  party  were  assembled,  gay  be- 

63 


64         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

cause  they  were  young.  They  put  the  chairs  and  tables 
aside  and  danced,  while  Cousin  Mary  played  on  the  old 
piano,  waltzes  and  polkas  that  she  had  learned  when  a 
girl. 

Dave  arrived  late,  and,  to  Page's  astonishment  and 
quick  indignation,  he  was  escorting  Martha  Morton. 

Martha  looked  quite  pretty,  unusually  so,  in  a  pink 
tarletan  with  a  wreath  of  natural  pinks  on  her  dark 
hair  and  returned  Page's  greeting  in  an  off-hand,  su- 
perior manner.  Someone  had  told  Page  that  Dave  had 
been  seeing  a  good  deal  of  Martha  lately,  that  the  Sun- 
day before  he  had  walked  home  from  church  with  her 
and  that  Mrs.  Lee  had  invited  her  to  tea  several  times. 
Certainly  this  evening  Dave  seemed  quite  engrossed 
with  Martha  and  once  when  he  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  talking  to  her  in  almost  a  tender  manner,  Page, 
who  happened  to  be  descending,  paused  and  gazed  at 
him.  She  noted  with  sudden  vision  his  clear,  rich 
complexion,  his  flashing  eyes,  the  live,  glistening  hair, 
the  sensitive  temples,  the  scarlet,  determined  mouth 
and  the  strong  white  teeth.  Dave  had  always  possessed 
these  physical  advantages,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that 
added  to  them  was  a  certain  intense  vitality,  a  new 
strength  and  the  manner  and  bearing  of  a  victor.  She 
had  noticed  also  that  his  arrival  with  Martha  had 
caused  quite  a  stir  among  the  guests  and  had  overheard 
comments  concerning  his  attentions  to  her.  Everyone 
had  been  surprised  to  see  him  escorting  Martha  and 
furtive  glances  had  been  directed  to  Page  that  irritated 
her. 

Once,  rather  late  in  the  evening,  when  she  stepped 
out  on  the  porch,  he  followed  her.  While  he  did  not 
approach  her  and  only  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the 
porch  looking  out,  a  feeling  of  rest  came  over  her. 


CONFLICTING  EMOTIONS  65 

She  always  had  that  languorous,  restful  feeling  when 
Dave  was  near,  and  suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  it 
would  be  maddeningly  sweet  to  live  all  her  life  in  that 
graceful,  magnetic  presence.  That  Dave  could  ever 
think  of  another  girl  as  his  wife  had  never  before  oc- 
curred to  her.  She  was  so  used  to  his  devotion,  and  to 
having  his  name  coupled  with  hers  that  this  introduc- 
tion of  Martha  between  them  was  received  as  an 
affront. 

She  took  a  step  in  advance  to  speak  to  him,  to  take 
her  place  by  his  side  and  assume  her  right  to  question 
him  concerning  his  pronounced  attentions  to  Martha, 
but  there  came  over  her  the  feeling  that  if  she  made 
such  an  advance  to  him,  he  would  demand  seriousness 
of  her  and  a  decision  as  to  their  future.  Was  she  pre- 
pared to  face  this?  Suddenly,  as  something  entirely 
apart  from  Dave,  the  old  house,  \vhere  she  would  have 
to  live,  came  up.  She  saw  the  walls  of  the  different 
rooms  with  their  gloomy,  faded  paper,  these  walls  that 
closed  in  Dave,  Uncle  Randolph  chewing  tobacco  and 
reading  law,  and  Mrs.  Lee  always  stoically  performing 
her  duties.  It  repelled  her  and  sent  a  little  chill  down 
her  spine.  Even  the  prayer  books  she  recalled  were 
always  on  the  same  table  just  where  they  had  been  all 
her  life  and  Mrs.  Lee  continued  to  read  a  chapter  in 
the  Bible  every  morning  after  breakfast  and  have  fam- 
ily prayers.  Page  remembered  how  nervous  those 
prayers  used  to  make  her  during  her  visits  there  when  a 
child,  especially  the  days  when  the  Litany  was  said. 
Dave,  yes,  but  his  environment  and  all  that  went  with 
Dave!  She  was  again  attacked  by  madness  for  free- 
dom and  the  opportunity  to  revel  in  herself. 

Finally  Dave  turned  and  walked  over  to  her,  and,  as 
he  did  so,  Emily  rushed  out  breathless.     Her  face  was 


66         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

white  with  terror  and  lit  up  with  a  frantic  passion. 

"  Page,"  she  cried,  catching  her  hand  in  a  sharp 
clasp,  "  stand  guard  for  me  —  watch  for  me !  " 

"  Emily,  what  is  it  —  what  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

The  girl  gave  a  startled  look  first  at  Dave,  then  at 
her,  and  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper.  "  Fielding 
is  at  the  gate.  He  has  been  walking  up  and  down  the 
sidewalk  for  an  hour.  I  am  going  out  to  him  —  going 
to  speak  to  him  —  I  must  —  I'm  going  to  say  good-by 
—  watch  for  me  —  watch  father !  " 

Before  Page  could  speak  the  little  white-robed  figure 
had  broken  away  and  was  flying  like  lightning  down 
the  steps,  and  through  the  short  path.  A  moment  later 
they  heard  her  broken,  smothered  sobs  and  knew  that 
her  lover  had  her  on  his  breast. 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  said  Dave  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  It's  a  shame,"  Page  cried,  "  and  I  hate  Cousin 
Edmund  for  it.  They  are  laying  her  upon  the  altar 
as  a  living  sacrifice.  And  all  over  Virginia  these 
tragedies  are  going  on !  " 

"  They  are  the  result  of  war,"  said  Dave  absently 
and  sadly. 

"  And  of  women  surrendering  too  easily  —  Emily 
ought  to  run  away  with  Fielding." 

"  You  wouldn't  run  away  with  me,"  said  Dave 
fiercely  as  he  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  No,"  answered  Page  who  was  in  an  overwrought 
condition,  first  through  her  jealousy  and  then  through 
Emily,  "  but  I  suppose  Martha  Morton  would !  " 

"  Do  you?  "  asked  Dave,  feigning  eagerness. 

"  Do  you?  "  she  flashed. 

Dave  had  seen  his  advantage  and  made  no  reply, 
fastening  upon  her  brain  a  silence  fraught  with  mean- 
ing. 


CONFLICTING  EMOTIONS  67 

They  remained  thus  quite  a  while  until  Emily  ap- 
peared at  the  foot  of  the  steps  like  a  corpse.  Seeing 
that  she  was  scarcely  able  to  mount  the  steps,  and  was 
holding  out  her  hands  for  help,  Page  ran  down  to  her 
assistance. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NEGRO    HEROISM 

THE  next  morning  Page  felt  so  oppressed  that  she 
almost  wished  she  could  return  home  before  breakfast. 
She  dressed  herself  quietly,  however,  and  descended 
to  the  dining-room. 

The  family  was  already  assembled  at  the  table  and 
the  sight  of  Cousin  Edmund's  round  back,  a  little  bent, 
and  his  bald  head,  that  faced  her,  as  she  entered  the 
door,  overcame  her,  she  knew  not  why,  with  tender- 
ness. She  went  up  as  usual  and  kissed  him  before 
taking  her  seat.  She  glanced  at  her  Cousin  Mary, 
who  looked  like  a  statue  in  its  accustomed  niche,  and 
saw  the  tremulousness  of  the  thin  fingers  as  they 
passed  her  cup  to  her.  Page  wanted  to  grasp  the 
hand  and  cover  it  with  tears  and  kisses,  but  felt  that 
she  must  restrain  herself. 

Emily  was  seated  at  her  left  and  her  eyes  had 
grown  tragic.  Looking  into  them  Page  could  read 
in  their  startled  depths  that,  come  what  would,  this 
child  would  love,  honor,  and  obey  her  parents.  She 
felt  her  knees  tremble  and  wanted  to  get  down  on 
them  before  this  broken-hearted  young  creature,  this 
being  obeying  blindly  what  she  had  been  taught  was 
right,  who  would  die  kissing  the  hand  that  had  stabbed 
her,  and  was  leading  her  into  humiliation,  because 
that  hand  was  her  father's.  The  pathos  of  it  appalled 
Page  and  she  had  a  stronger  feeling  than  ever  that 
there  were  things  that  must  pass  away. 

68 


NEGRO  HEROISM  69 

After  breakfast  she  packed  her  old  carpet  bag  and 
left. 

When  she  reached  the  street,  she  breathed  freer. 
The  glory  of  the  day  struck  her  full  in  the  face,  and 
she  took  in  great  breaths  of  air  like  a  liberated  pris- 
oner. She  realized  that  for  days  she  had  been  under 
the  pressure  of  emotions  that  were  stifling  her  as  they 
were  stifling  the  entire  family  —  her  Cousin  Edmund 
included.  As  he  rose  before  her,  growing  old  under 
the  burdens  that  had  been  bearing  him  down  for  twenty 
years,  and  that  he  was  about  to  sacrifice  his  child  to 
be  relieved  of,  her  throat  swelled,  a  lump  rose  in  it, 
and  tears  gushed  to  her  eyes. 

She  remembered  him,  and  must  ever  remember  him, 
as  he  was  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  merry,  genial,  and 
jovial.  She  remembered  how  the  children  always  ran 
to  meet  him,  how  he  tossed  the  little  ones  in  the  air 
or  let  them  "  ride  horse,"  on  his  foot  in  their  little 
nightgowns  before  they  went  to  bed.  And  how 
charmingly  he  entertained  at  his  table,  and  ah !  yes, 
how  he  danced  at  the  parties,  bowing  so  graciously 
to  the  ladies,  and  even  cutting  the  "  pigeon  wing " 
when  it  came  his  time  to  "  forward  two  " —  and,  now! 
Why  Cousin  Edmund  was  almost  an  old  man;  she 
recognized  it  for  the  first  time  that  morning  when 
she  entered  the  dining-room  and  was  so  overcome 
with  tenderness  at  the  sight  of  his  bowed  shoulders 
and  bald  head. 

Such  a  sharp  pain  clutched  at  her  heart  that  in- 
voluntarily she  put  her  hand  over  it.  She  felt  the 
desire  to  strike  a  terrific  blow  at  something  that  would 
save  things,  her  Cousin  Edmund  included,  and  sud- 
denly she  felt  doubly  inspired  to  save  herself.  She 
felt  that  to  stand  by  the  old,  the  rotting,  the  hopeless, 


70         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

the  finished,  was  madness  that  amounted  to  crime. 
Her  pace  was  rapid,  her  breath  came  quickly,  and  her 
whole  body  felt  as  though  she  were  being  stung  by 
innumerable  insects  that  she  could  not  fight  off. 

She  was  entering  the  front  door,  when  Mrs.  Bartlett 
ran  out  to  meet  her. 

"  Miss  Page,"  she  whispered,  "  Aunt  Martha  is  up 
in  your  room,  and  I  think  she  has  been  drinking." 

Page  nodded  a  comprehensive  reply  and  mounted 
the  stairs  quickly.  As  she  entered  the  door  the  tall, 
gaunt  form  of  an  old  negress  was  outlined  against 
the  black  mantel-piece.  When  she  saw  Page,  her  face 
lit  up  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  strident  voice  rang 
out: 

"  Lord,  Lord !     Miss  Page,  what  do  you  think  done 
happen?     Dey  done  put  Sam  in  de  prison  again  — 
oh !     My  Gaud,  honey !     What  I  guine  to  do?  " 

It  was  plain  to  see  that  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  right  — 
Aunt  Martha  had  been  drinking.  She  was  a  tall, 
aristocratic  old  lady,  with  ginger-bread  skin,  who  used 
to  be  seamstress  and  general  directress  in  Uncle  Ran- 
dolph's household  during  his  mother's  lifetime. 

She  was  possessed  of  high  character  and  integrity, 
and  could  be  trusted  with  anything,  including  the  care 
of  your  soul,  except  the  whisky  bottle.  It  seemed  that 
she  always  had  the  failing,  but,  as  it  never  interfered 
with  her  work  or  deportment,  it  was  overlooked. 
Uncle  Randolph  used  to  tell  his  mother  to  look  out, 
that  Martha  was  on  her  "  high  horse,"  but  Mrs.  Har- 
rison never  admitted  it  because  life  without  Martha 
as  a  kind  of  vice-president  in  the  establishment ;  to  be 
on  hand  for  consultation  for  every  event,  from  the 
giving  of  a  ball  to  the  whipping  of  the  children  —  few 
children  escaped  whipping  in  Mrs.  Harrison's  day  — 


NEGRO  HEROISM  71 

would  have  been  impossible  to  her,  or  she  thought  so. 

Poor  old  creature,  times  had  changed  for  her  and 
her  little  indulgences  had  become  more  frequent.  She 
was  not  the  only  one  who  had  succumbed  to  the  habit 
in  the  last  fifteen  years.  Life  with  her  was  hard, 
hard  indeed,  and  God  had  seen  fit  lo  curse  her  with  a 
bad  son. 

This  Sam,  almost  a  giant  in  stature  and  black  as  the 
ace  of  spades,  had  become  a  petty  thief,  and  his  poor 
old  mother's  honest  heart  was  bursting  with  shame. 
There  was  a  dusky  red  in  her  brown  cheeks  not  pro- 
duced by  the  whisky  alone.  Of  late  years,  Mrs.  Lee 
had  not  felt  that  she  could  afford  a  seamstress,  and 
Aunt  Martha  had  been  living  with  her  son  and  going 
out  to  do  sewing  by  the  day. 

"Oh,  not  the  penitentiary  again,  Aunt  Martha?" 
Page  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  honey,  and  he  ain't  been  out  six  months. 
And  all  de  gemmens  what  hep  me  ter  git  his  pardon, 
how  I  guine  face  'em?" 

"  Oh,  well,  you  needn't,  Aunt  Martha;  I'd  just  stay 
away." 

"An'  who  guine  to  'sport  me?"  The  old  face 
paled.  "  Who  guine  gib  me  my  bread  and  meat  and 
keep  the  roof  over  me  ?  Who  ?  " 

Page  couldn't  answer. 

"  I  too  ole  to  work,  my  eye-sight  done  give  out,  so 
I  kyarnt  see  ter  do  fine  sewing,  and  besides,  nobody 
got  fine  sewing.  'Tain't  nobody  got  fine  sewing  'cepen 
de  pore  white  trash,  en  Gaud  knows  I  ain  guine  work 
fur  dem  —  Gaud  knows  I  ain't !  " 

And  Aunt  Martha,  who  had  dropped  into  a  chair, 
rose  excitedly  to  her  feet.  Her  form  towered  up 
straight  as  an  arrow,  she  was  neat  and  clean  from  the 


72         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

head-handkerchief  to  the  white  apron  that  covered 
her  faded  calico  dress  and  reached  nearly  to  her  feet. 
She  was  a  representative  of  the  respectable  colored  peo- 
ple, who,  under  slavery,  felt  themselves  superior  to 
the  ordinary  whites.  The  poorhouse,  yes,  she  could 
see  visions  of  it,  but  she  could  no  more,  at  this  day, 
no  matter  what  she  might  have  come  to,  work  for  the 
"  poor  white  trash  "  than  she  could  have,  Elijah-like, 
flown  to  heaven.  Her  pride  had  been  dealt  a  severe 
blow;  her  child,  the  child  of  her  body,  her  own  son, 
a  great  wicked  Hercules,  in  whom  her  pride  centered, 
had  disgraced  her.  She  could  not  mend  matters  by 
thus  falling  herself. 

Her  suffering  as  she  stood  there  facing  Page  in  her 
little  room,  was  acute;  this  big  creature  that  she  had 
borne  was  a  thief,  but  he  was  good  to  her;  except  when 
he  was  serving  his  terms  in  the  penitentiary,  she  had 
never  known  actual  want.  And  she  loved  him,  this 
big,  burly  Sam,  this  hard-working  thief  —  she  loved 
him!  Page  did  a  very  weak  thing.  She  always  did 
weak  things  when  people  were  suffering.  She  put  her 
hand  in  her  little  purse  and  took  out  a  quarter. 
"  Here,  Aunt  Martha,  go  get  yourself  a  little  whisky, 
you're  so  unstrung,"  she  said. 

However,  when  she  saw  the  eager  light  that  flamed 
up  in  the  old  eyes,  the  light  of  the  lover  of  drink,  who 
sees  it  within  grasp,  she  felt  alarmed.  She  always 
felt  alarmed  when  she  knew  that  what  she  deliberately 
did  was  wrong,  and  she  saw  a  glimmer  of  the  result. 

"  Lord,  chile,  you  ain't  got  no  money  to  gib  me," 
Aunt  Martha  said  with  a  faint  smile  as  she  took  the 
quarter. 

Relieved  though,  her  whole  being  had  relaxed,  and 
she  sat  down  prepared  to  tell  her  story.  She  came 


NEGRO  HEROISM  73 

for  that  quarter,  and  she  came  for  it  to  get  whisky. 
She  had  done  it  before,  and  Page's  aunt  had  scolded 
her  many  times  for  giving  it  to  her. 

As  Page  sat  and  looked  at  her  she  tried  to  an- 
alyze the  harm.  She  couldn't  see  much.  Here  was 
a  poor  soul,  a  victim  like  herself  of  a  cruel,  bitter  fate, 
possibly  uncertain  of  the  roof  over  her  head,  cer- 
tainly with  scant  food  and  a  pride  inculcated  in  her  by 
circumstances  for  which  she  was  in  no  way  responsible, 
that  prevented  her  from  bettering  herself  and  getting 
along.  Suppose  she  did  try  to  forget  things ! 

"  Lord,  honey,  what  do  you  think  your  ma  and 
gram 'ma  would  say  if  she  knew  what  we  done  come 
to?  "  she  said,  looking  at  Page  wistfully. 

"  I  don't  know,  Aunt  Martha,  I  often  wonder,"  said 
Page. 

"  It's  many  a  night  I  lays  thar  in  my  hard  bed  and 
looks  out  at  de  stars  and  thanks  Gaud  Mars  Ran's 
father  and  mother,  my  old  marster  and  mistiss,  is  safe 
behind'm  on  Jesus'  breast  —  many  er  night !  What  we 
do,  Miss  Page,  if  it  want  for  de  Lord  Jesus  Christ? 
What  I  do  ter-day  \vith  Sam  out  dar,"  her  voice  broke, 
"  in  that  awful  den,  if  I  didn't  know  Jesus  was  stand- 
ing by  my  side?  He  right  here,  Miss  Page;  his  hand 
is  raised  over  my  head,  en  I  can  hear  him  saying, 
*  Martha,  de  Lord  is  wid  you,  abide  in  de  Lord.' ' 
She  dropped  down  in  her  seat  again  and  Page  went 
up  and  put  her  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  How  else,"  she  continued,  looking  at  Page,  her 
old  dim  eyes  filled  with  tears,  "  how  else  could  I  stand 
my  chile  being  dar,  Miss  Page?  " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept  convul- 
sively for  a  few  moments,  and  then  drying  her  tears 
in  a  corner  of  her  apron,  she  went  on  excitedly,  "  But 


74         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Jesus  wid  us!  He  wid  him,  en  He  guine  wash  him 
white  as  snow.  Honey,  does  you  pray,"  she  asked 
suddenly,  "  does  you  say  your  prayers  regular  ?  Does 
you  say,  '  Now  I  lay  me,'  and  '  Our  Father  who  art 
in  Heaven?'" 

"Oh,  yes,  Aunt  Martha!" 

"  Dat  right,  chile." 

"  What  is  it,"  Page  asked  timidly,  after  a  long 
pause,  "  that  Sam  has  done  this  time  ?  " 

"  Jess  a  little  pig  iron,  honey.  He  took  it  from 
where  dem  Yankees  building  dat  new  foundry  en  sold 
it  for  fifty  cents,  en  he  bought  some  meal,  en  bacon, 
en  a  little  sugar  and  coffee,  en  fetched  em  home  to  me. 
Dey  dar  now  —  I  kyarn't  eat'm.  I  kyarn't  touch'm ! 
What  you  reckon  made  him  steal  dem  little  things, 
Miss  Page?  Sam  ain't  er  bad  man!  " 

"  Oh !  Aunt  Martha,"  answered  Page  desperately, 
"  I  don't  know.  But  you  wait  here,  you  look  so  tired. 
I'm  going  down  and  get  Mrs.  Bartlett  to  cook  some- 
thing for  you;  you  must  have  something  to  eat  before 
you  go  home." 

"  Naw,  naw,  'tain't  no  use  putting  her  to  all  dat 
trouble.  I'll  be  goin'  now."  She  arose  and  put  on  a 
faded  but  spotlessly  clean  sun-bonnet,  made  in  the  old 
style  with  pasteboard  slats  in  it.  Page  knew  she 
wanted  to  go  for  the  whisky,  but  she  didn't  care  — 
not  in  the  least.  She  hoped  she  would  get  it  quickly, 
if  only  it  would  ease  the  sad  pain  in  her  heart.  How 
could  she  care?  She  did  another  weak  thing.  She 
said,  "  Aunt  Martha,  I  would  eat  those  things  out  there 
at  your  room.  It  can't  hurt  anybody;  it  can't  hurt 
Sam;  he's  paid  for  his  sin;  and  it  can't  hurt  God." 

"  It  ken  hurt  me,  honey,"  said  this  simple  courage- 
ous soul.  Page  rebuked  —  said  good-by  to  her ;  told 


NEGRO  HEROISM  75 

her  to  come  again,  and  listened  to  her  footsteps  as  she 
descended  the  stairs,  thinking  in  her  heart  that  she,  too, 
this  poor  old  colored  woman,  was  one  of  the  South's 
blighted  flowers.  She  thought  a  long  while  of  all  the 
sorrow  and  misery  that  seemed  to  be  upon  her  people, 
white  and  black,  and  in  this  moment  each  seemed 
equally  dear  to  her. 

Finally  she  heard  steps  on  the  stairs.  Fixing  her 
eyes  upon  the  doorway,  she  was  a  moment  later  con- 
fronted by  Cousin  Betty. 

"  My  gracious !  "  said  that  energetic  lady,  entering 
a  little  flushed  and  excited,  "  I've  been  trying  to  get 
here  the  entire  morning.  Everybody  I  met  stopped 
me,  and  I  stopped  myself  to  go  by  and  speak  to  poor 
Harriet  Burwell.  Did  you  know  they  were  being 
sold  out?" 

"  No !  "  gasped  Page. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cousin  Betty,  laying  a  roll  of  music 
and  a  small  reticule  on  the  bed  and  taking  Page's  little 
rocker,  "  and  it  all  comes  of  Harriet  being  what  she 
has  always  been,  a  silly  woman !  " 

"  But  so  dainty  and  sweet,"  answered  Page. 

"  Dainty  and  sweet,"  replied  Cousin  Betty,  "  we 
can't  afford  to  be  dainty  and  sweet  nowadays,  and 
Harriet  hasn't  had  the  courage  to  give  up  living  ex- 
travagantly just  as  she  did  before  the  war.  I  have 
been  seeing  the  end  for  three  years.  Why,  they  have 
entertained  more  people  there  in  a  year  than  Mrs.  Steb- 
bins  has  at  her  boarding-house !  " 

"  I  know  it,"  Page  replied.  "  I  never  have  been 
there  that  I  didn't  find  a  house  full !  " 

"And  what  has  it  come  to?"  demanded  Cousin 
Betty,  "  open  house,  elaborate  table,  and  supporting 
two  or  three  families  of  negroes!  " 


76         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  Poor  little  Mrs.  Burwell !  "  exclaimed  Page.  "  But 
who  isn't  in  trouble?  Aunt  Martha  Washington  has 
just  been  to  see  me.  Sam's  been  stealing  again!  " 

"  You  don't  say !  I  do  pity  her  and  I  certainly  do 
pity  poor  Harriet,  but  I  have  never  had  any  toleration 
of  her  extravagance.  The  idea  of  saying  that  it  would 
kill  her  to  ever  put  on  anything  but  silk  stockings  and 
satin  slippers !  Haven't  you  heard  her  say  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  Page  admitted,  smiling. 

"  Well,"  said  Cousin  Betty,  "  the  end  has  come. 
Every  blessed  thing  on  earth  they  had,  including  her 
bridal  chamber  set,  has  gone  to  the  auction.  I'll  never 
forget  her  standing  on  that  porch  in  a  pair  of  those 
self-same  satin  slippers,  with  a  japonica  in  her  hair, 
watching  each  piece  put  in  the  wagon.  What  on  earth 
the  poor  child  is  going  to  do  without  a  home  to  be  at 
the  head  of,  I  don't  know.  But  it's  a  good  thing. 
Why,  those  poor  people  have  been  eaten  out  of  house 
and  home,  and  nothing  could  end  it  but  not  having  a 
roof.  Harriet  can't  help  inviting  people.  They're 
going  to  the  Exchange  Hotel,  you  know!  What  do 
you  suppose  she  did  as  I  was  leaving?  " 

"What?  "asked  Page. 

"  Invited  me  to  come  to  tea  this  evening!  "  Cousin 
Betty  laughed. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  going,"  exclaimed  Page. 

"Of  course,  I'm  going,"  laughed  Cousin  Betty,  "  I 
haven't  had  supper  in  a  hotel  since  I  was  at  the  White 
Sulphur  Springs,  heaven  knows  how  many  years  ago. 
How  is  Mrs.  Bartlett  standing  Sadie  May's  death?  " 

"  Very  poorly,"  answered  Page,  suddenly  grave, 
"  she  seems  even  more  depressed  as  the  days  go  by." 

"  Well,  she  is  a  good  little  soul,  and  I  am  very  sorry 
for  her,  but  good  people  are  often  a  little  trying,  too," 


NEGRO  HEROISM  77 

Cousin  Betty  went  on.  "  Now  she  ought  to  cheer  up 
and  not  always  be  making  that  poor  husband,  whom 
she  keeps  right  under  her  thumb,  feel  like  he  was  at  his 
own  funeral.  I'm  going  to  tell  her  so.  Why,  I  met 
the  poor  man  on  the  street  and  he  looks  worn  out; 
she's  wearing  him  to  a  frazzle.  Sadie  May,  and 
Heaven  knows  how  she  ever  felt  as  she  did  about  the 
poor  little  thing,  is  dead,  and  not  worth  worrying  the 
poor  father  to  death  about.  I  tell  you,  Page,  the 
longer  I  live,  the  more  I  wonder  at  women,  and  es- 
pecially at  married  women.  It's  nothing  nowadays 
but  bickering  and  nagging.  I  suppose  it  isn't  their 
fault,  but  the  way  things  are  —  what  everybody  has 
come  to.  Before  the  war,  I  never  heard  a  word  be- 
tween a  man  and  his  wife.  It  was  all  a  bed  of  roses. 
It's  all  a  bed  of  thorns  now,  my  dear,  and  no  wonder 
the  poor  creatures  cry  out  and  fret.  I've  got  two 
more  music  lessons  to  give  to-day,"  she  went  on; 
"  think  of  it,  sitting  there  a  whole  hour  with  children 
that  have  about  as  much  talent  for  music  as  door 
knobs.  I'd  like  to  crack  their  skulls,"  she  laughed. 

"  And  you'll  just  be  patient  with  them !  "  Page  ex- 
claimed. "  Do  you  think  /  could  tramp  about  as  you 
do  giving  music  lessons,  and  always  being  bright  and 
kind  and  tolerant?  I  just  couldn't  —  the  tide  goes 
with  you,  it  goes  against  me." 

"  The  tide  doesn't  go  with  me,  my  dear,  I  follow 
the  tide,"  she  replied.  "  Now,  for  example,  the  other 
night  at  old  Colonel  Thompson's,  I  was  singing  for 
them.  As  usual,  Cousin  Amanda  would  have  the 
'  Irish  Emigrant's  Lament/  and  so  of  course,  while  I 
am  tired  to  death  of  the  old  thing,  I  sang  it.  I  always 
do  my  best  for  Cousin  Amanda,  dear  old  soul ;  a  bet- 
ter woman  never  lived  on  earth,  and  when  I  came 


78         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

to  the  '  oo !  oh !  ooh !  oooh ! '  I  put  in  it  as  much  pathos 
as  I  could.  Well,  somehow  it  struck  everybody  pres- 
ent, except  Cousin  Amanda,  as  funny.  Perhaps  it 
was,  all  that  wailing,  and  the  entire  company  was 
simply,  in  spite  of  Cousin  Amanda  shaking  her  head 
at  everybody  in  turn,  exploding  behind  their  hands 
with  laughter  —  one  of  the  children  was  rolling  on  the 
floor.  Now  you  don't  suppose  I  got  mad;  not  a  bit 
of  it !  I  turned  it  into  the  *  Wooden  Leg '  and  let 
them  laugh  all  they  could  when  '  tra-ra-ra '  came. 
That's  the  way,  Page,  my  dear,  we've  got  to  do,  turn 
with  the  tide.  There  are  not  many  tragedies  except 
war  and  disgrace  that  you  can't  turn  into  comedies, 
and  since  we  have  a  store  of  tragedies  on  hand  and 
very  few  comedies,  we've  got  to  make  a  few.  It 
keeps  people  up." 

"  Cousin  Betty,  you  are  so  brave,"  exclaimed  Page. 
"  Did  you  ever  hurt  anyone's  feelings  in  your  life?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  child,  I  hope  not.  I  don't  de- 
serve any  credit  for  it,  though,  because  apart  from  in- 
flicting pain,  it  never  seemed  sensible.  We've  got  to  be 
sensible,  my  dear;  we  can't  afford  to  be  anything  else, 
and  especially  these  times.  If  a  person  has  three 
faults  and  one  good  point,  I  always  like  to  harp  on  the 
good  point;  it  has  served  me  many  a  little  turn. 
Now  to-day  I'm  going  to  harp  on  Mrs.  Bartlett's  cook- 
ing. To  tell  the  truth,  I  like  her  hot  biscuits.  I'm 
going  down  and  sing  the  '  Irish  Mother's  Lament ' 
for  her,  and  when  she  gets  through  her  tears  and  has 
a  good  laugh,  she  will  make  some,  and  you  must  come 
down.  I've  got  a  little  tea  in  here,"  touching  her 
reticule,  "  Mr.  Christian  gave  me  to  try,  and  this  is 
as  good  a  place  as  any  to  try  it.  These  poor  whites 
can  cook !  "  she  concluded  with  a  wink. 


NEGRO  HEROISM  79 

She  left,  and  Page  sat  thinking  of  her,  wonderful 
woman,  wonderful  type  of  womanhood,  true  as  steel, 
generous,  warm-hearted,  and  loving,  but  shrewd  and 
smart,  with  a  merry  and  lofty  contempt  for  the  world. 
Presently  her  voice  reached  her  wailing  forth  the 
"  Irish  Mother's  Lament,"  as  did  also  the  sobs  of  Mrs. 
Bartlett,  who  \vas  sitting  outside  the  little  parlor  door 
on  the  steps.  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  said  to  her  not  less 
than  a  dozen  times  during  the  past  week,  if  only  she 
could  have  a  good  cry!  Well,  she  was  having  it  and 
Sadie  May,  poor  little  Sadie  May,  was  none  the  worse 
for  it  if  it  was  a  relief,  and  they  were  going  to  have 
those  fine,  big,  fat  biscuits,  that  Mrs.  Bartlett  made  to 
perfection  —  buttermilk  biscuits !  —  she  could  almost 
smell  them  cooking. 

She  got  up,  walked  over  to  the  window  and  looked 
out,  and  to  her  delight  she  saw  her  Aunt  Constance 
approaching. 

Page  was  glad  of  this  because  she  could  induce 
her  to  go  down  and  partake  of  Mrs.  Bartlett's  biscuits. 
It  would  require  inducing,  for  her  Aunt  Constance 
couldn't  understand  how  Cousin  Betty  could  affiliate 
with  people  of  Mrs.  Bartlett's  kind;  but  wherever 
Cousin  Betty  was  everything  became  agreeable,  and  so, 
with  some  demurring,  she  finally  agreed. 

When  the  lunch  was  over,  and  they  had  returned  to 
Page's  room,  Cousin  Betty  broached  the  subject  of  the 
trip  which  was  hailed  by  Page  with  delight. 

Before  they  separated,  it  was  arranged  that  they 
take  the  boat  on  the  following  Wednesday.  Cousin 
Betty  whispered  to  Aunt  Constance  that  she  had  seen 
Dave  the  evening  before. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   HISTORIC    JAMES 

THE  boat  they  had  to  take  to  reach  the  old  James 
River  plantation  of  Fielding  Peyton  left  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  so  at  four  they  were  up,  three  sleepy 
females  dressing  by  the  gaslight.  Page  was  thinking 
that  if  she  lived  to  be  a  thousand  years  old,  she  would 
always  be  able  to  recall  vividly  how  she  felt  on  those 
mornings  when  she  had  to  get  up  to  take  that  early 
boat,  and  the  visions  of  the  people  rushing  to  catch  it. 

Nobody  in  Richmond  at  that  time  went  to  train  or 
boat  except  in  a  hack.  They  wouldn't  have  felt  other- 
wise that  they  were  going  on  a  trip,  and  certainly 
they  would  have  felt  embarrassed  if  a  friend  had 
caught  them  arriving  on  foot.  Except  at  a  funeral, 
it  was  the  only  time  many  of  them  ever  got  the  chance 
to  ride,  and  Page  had  known  several  ladies  who  had 
never  gotten  over  being  deprived  of  their  carriages, 
who  looked  forward  to  these  trips  to  the  boat  or  grave 
on  account  of  the  hack  rides.  There  wasn't  imagina- 
ble, anything  much  more  delightful  than  these  big, 
roomy  old  hacks,  with  two  dear  old  horses,  that  just 
as  surely  had  interesting  histories  as  the  old  darkey 
who  drove  them. 

There  were  two  occasions  when  these  old  darkeys 
whipped  up  their  horses  and  gave  people  a  good  ride 
—  when  they  were  bringing  them  from  a  funeral  or 
carrying  them  to  a  boat.  Somehow  for  the  latter 
event  everybody  was  always  a  bit  late,  or  thought 

80 


THE  HISTORIC  JAMES  81 

they  were,  and  quite  an  excitement  ensued.  The  old 
driver  snapped  his  whip  and  talked  to  his  horses  down 
the  last  hill;  returning  drivers  shook  their  heads  and 
called  out,  "  You  never  will  kotch  it,"  and  at  times  the 
excitement  grew  quite  intense.  "  Oh !  Do  hurry !  " 
was  cried  out  to  the  driver  over  and  over  to  get  in  re- 
turn, "  I  been  kotchin'  dat  boat  for  twenty  years,  en 
I  ain  never  miss  it !  "  or  some  such  expression  as  they 
went  flying  down  the  rocky  hills,  up  others,  and  then 
down  again  with  the  fresh  morning  air  in  their  nos- 
trils, the  rising  sun  in  a  pink  hazy  sky  in  their  eyes, 
and  vehicles  passing  or  dropping  behind.  Once  at  the 
wharf  they  knew  a  dozen  people  who  had  all,  like  them- 
selves, been  rushing,  and  handshaking,  and  laughter 
followed  as  they  marched  aboard.  Each  one  asked 
where  he  or  she  was  going,  and  the  cabin  maid  spoke 
to  everybody  and  told  the  James  River  news. 

It  was  arranged  that  Cousin  Betty  should  engage 
the  hack  and  "go  by  "  for  the  other  two. 

Page  was  just  burning  her  mouth  with  the  coffee 
that  Mrs.  Bartlett  would  get  up  and  make  for  her,  when 
the  rattle  of  wheels,  and  Cousin  Betty's  voice  calling 
"  Page !  Page !  "  were  heard.  She  put  her  head  out  of 
the  window  and  called  back  brightly,  "  I  am  coming," 
and  as  she  did  so  there  was  impressed  on  her  mind, 
for  life,  the  old  hack  all  thrown  open,  Martin  upon  the 
box,  and  inside  the  two  maiden  ladies  so  different  and 
yet  in  many  respects  alike.  Two  sweet  flowers,  sacred 
flowers,  that  bloomed  in  gorgeous  gardens  before  the 
war,  just  as  poor  old  Aunt  Martha  had,  two  flowers 
unequal  to  all  the  hardships  they  were  bearing,  ah, 
how  unequal,  but  courageous  and  brave,  and  when  it 
was  possible,  merry.  She  ran  hurriedly  down  and 
kissed  them  both,  called  out  "  how-de  do  "  to  Uncle 


82          THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Martin,  whom  she  had  known  ever  since  she  was  born, 
and  off  they  started. 

"  Now,  Martin,"  called  Cousin  Betty,  "  whip  up 
those  old  rattle  bones  of  yours !  " 

"  Dese  here  good  horses,  Miss  Betty,"  he  returned, 
"  dey  ain't  no  rattle  bones." 

"  Well,  we'll  know  what  kind  of  horses  you  have  if 
you  catch  that  boat !  "  cried  Cousin  Betty  with  a  joy- 
ous laugh. 

"  You  ain't  got  to  stop  nowhar  else,  is  you  ?  "  asked 
Martin  over  his  shoulders. 

"  No,  Miss  Page  was  the  last !  " 

"  Well,  den,  dat  boat  good  as  kotched." 

They  dropped  into  other  topics,  and  how  they  en- 
joyed that  drive  and  the  racing  at  the  end,  the  arriving 
and  the  meetings,  and  the  starting  and,  last  but  not 
least,  the  boat  breakfast.  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  fixed  up 
a  basket  for  Page  and  her  aunt  had  her  beaten  biscuits 
with  thin  slices  of  ham  that  somebody  had  fixed  for 
her,  but  Cousin  Betty  declared  she  intended,  if  it  took 
her  last  cent,  to  have  them  all  eat  at  the  table  with  the 
Captain.  They  did,  and  the  joking  and  bursts  of 
laughter  between  her  and  the  Captain  entertained  and 
enlivened  the  entire  dining-room.  When  they  finished 
the  merry  breakfast  and  left  to  go  on  deck,  the  sweet- 
est pink  color  had  come  into  Aunt  Constance's  cheeks, 
and  Page  put  her  arm  about  her,  as  they  went  up  the 
steps,  and  squeezed  her. 

The  trip  down  the  James  River  is  famous  for  its 
beauty.  It  is  justly  so  and  more  —  it  is  uniquely  in- 
teresting. At  every  landing  there  are  people  who 
know  each  other  and  call  from  wharf  to  boat,  some 
running  aboard  for  a  chat  while  the  boat  unloads  her 
merchandise  and,  when  she  blows  her  whistle  and 


THE  HISTORIC  JAMES  83 

starts  on  her  way,  there  is  waving  and  kissing  of  hands. 

The  stopping  of  the  boats  at  the  landings  was  the 
great  event  of  the  day  to  the  country  people.  Oh, 
how  poor  and  almost  ragged  the  men  looked  in  this 
year  of  1886,  standing  there  with  sunburned,  patrician 
faces  and  ofttimes  hopeless  expressions.  Many  wore 
worn  shoes,  many  had  on  trousers  that  the  rain  had 
shrunk  up  or  coats  that  the  sun  had  changed  the  color 
of.  But  they  lifted  their  hats,  ofttimes,  such  hats!  — 
like  true  cavaliers  —  and  their  voices  had  the  true 
ring.  No  one  was  judged  by  his  clothes.  It  didn't 
make  the  least  difference  in  this  blighted  kingdom, 
where  every  man  was  a  brother !  The  girls  all  looked 
sweet  in  their  lawns  and  percales  and  calicos,  and  if 
a  shoe  was  much  worn,  there  was  a  ribbon  around  the 
waist  and  a  smile  on  a  beautiful  mouth. 

They  landed  at  the  wharf  at  one  o'clock,  and  there 
was  the  old  carriage,  they  knew  so  well,  to  meet  them. 
This  old  carriage  had  been  in  the  family  since  long  be- 
fore the  war,  and  grand,  for  the  time  being,  was  the 
one  who  rode  in  it,  at  any  rate  one  felt  that  way. 

It  did  not  seem  to  Page  as  she  stepped  into  it  that 
there  ever  had  been  a  time  when  this  carriage  had  not 
been,  or  that  there  ever  could  be  a  time  when  it  would 
not  be.  It  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  world  to  her  as 
the  road  it  traveled. 

Large  and  imposing  it  stood  and  also  condescending 
and  a  criticism  would  no  more  be  passed  upon  it  than 
upon  some  old  and  honored  member  of  the  family. 
The  seats  were  covered  in  pearl  colored  broadcloth, 
and  the  back  and  sides  were  upholstered  in  white  dam- 
ask satin.  Black  mohair  issued  from  the  seats  and 
the  white  satin  hung  in  strips,  but  the  old  windows 
were  intact  and  could  still  be  let  up  or  down.  The 


84         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

top,  also  upholstered  in  white  damask,  was  in  a  pretty 
good  state  of  preservation,  even  to  the  broadcloth 
buttons,  and  maintained  its  dignity.  It  did  one  good 
to  look  up  at  it  from  the  raggedness  once  in  a  while. 

Hitched  to  this  imposing  vehicle  was  an  old  bay 
horse  and  a  mule.  How  the  harness  held  together  was 
a  mystery,  but  much  of  it  was  explained  by  ropes  that 
could  be  observed  here  and  there,  and  one  of  the  reins 
was  a  rope.  It  is  quite  safe  to  say  that  no  prouder 
driver  than  Alex  Black  ever  stood  beside  a  team. 
Alex  was  dressed  for  the  occasion.  Alex  always 
dressed  up,  when  he  drove  the  carriage,  in  a  pair  of 
very  light  trousers  belonging  to  someone  generations 
ago,  an  old  swallow-tailed  coat  and  a  white  beaver. 

They  all  shook  hands  with  Alex,  who  said,  "  Sarv- 
ant,  Mistiss,"  to  each  one  of  them,  and  grinned  de- 
lightedly. They  learned  from  him,  as  they  started 
off,  that  Mr.  Fielding  wasn't  so  well,  "  been  having 
chills,"  Miss  Phoebe  "  right  poo'ly,"  but  all  the  rest 
were  "  right  sprightly." 

"  Your  roads  haven't  improved  any,  Alex,"  said 
Cousin  Betty  as  they  went  down  into  a  hole  that 
nearly  upset  them. 

"  Nor'm,  folks  ain't  got  no  time  to  see  'bout  roads." 

"  Well,  when  that  one  gets  as  deep  as  a  well,  Alex, 
what  will  you  all  do?  " 

"  Jess  drive  round  it,"  said  Alex  stolidly. 

All  laughed  merrily  at  this,  and  Cousin  Betty  sug- 
gested that  Alex  inaugurate  the  "  driving  round  "  at 
the  next  hole  they  came  to,  but  was  informed  by  him 
he  "  wan't  never  much  as  a  starter  of  things."  Alex 
was  a  true  Virginian. 

They  arrived  after  a  pleasant  drive  through  the 
pines  and  found  the  whole  family  on  the  porch  to  meet 
them. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DISINTEGRATION 

PAGE  was  always  more  or  less  overpowered  by  the 
first  appearance  of  this  grim  army  of  eight  women  who 
occupied  the  old  home  as  prisoners  with  Fielding  at 
their  head  as  a  patient  and  kind  jailer. 

At  present,  with  the  exception  of  Nina,  the  youngest 
girl,  an  exotic  in  their  midst,  the  entire  family  was  in 
mourning  for  a  dead  uncle,  an  old  remnant  of  the 
war,  whom  they  had  not  seen  for  years,  and  who  died 
in  the  Soldiers'  Home,  but  who  was  nevertheless  en- 
titled to  this  respect,  which  involved  expense  and  much 
labor.  It  was  a  part  of  the  old  life  and  must  be 
obeyed,  and  was. 

The  sight  of  the  helpless,  overfed,  round  mother, 
the  anaemic  aunt,  who  never  allowed  herself  a  suf- 
ficient amount  of  food,  and  always  chose  the  wing  of 
the  chicken  as  a  matter  of  delicacy,  the  five  tall,  gaunt 
sisters,  all  in  solemn  black,  sent  a  shudder  through 
Page,  that  was  partly  dispelled,  however,  by  the  gay 
appearance  of  Nina,  who  lived  among  these  grewsome 
souls  like  a  canary  bird.  She  rejoiced  in  color  and 
sang  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

The  home  of  these  eight  women,  supported  by  Field- 
ing, who  tilled  the  earth  almost  night  and  day  to  keep 
bread  in  their  mouths  and  shoes  and  raiment  on  their 
bodies,  was  one  of  Colonial  grandeur,  and  year  after 
year  as  Page  visited  there  and  noted  the  changes  time 

85 


86         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

made  in  the  faces  and  bearing  of  the  inmates,  she 
noted  also  the  changes  in  the  old  home. 

They  were  indescribable  in  a  way,  and  yet  they 
were  there,  and  to-day  a  momentary  sadness  swept 
over  her.  Just  as  indefinable  deterioration  was  going 
on  in  the  family,  in  the  fat  mother,  the  anaemic  aunt, 
and  five  tall  sisters,  so  it  was  going  on  in  the  old  home 
standing  just  as  they,  proud  and  imposing,  helpless 
against  fate.  She  felt  that  this  old  home  was  a  part 
of  the  universal  changes  that  were  going  on  in  Vir- 
ginia, a  part  of  the  sacred  old,  slipping  away  never  to 
return.  Fifty  years  from  now  would  there  be  such 
women  as  her  Aunt  Constance,  Cousin  Betty,  and  their 
hostess,  these  products  of  a  poetic  period  surely  pass- 
ing away,  and  would  there  exist  just  such  a  home  as 
this  one? 

She  felt  with  a  wave  of  tenderness  there  would  not. 
Over  all  their  present  hung  a  dark  cloud  and  in  that 
cloud,  in  letters  of  fire  that  seemed  to  burn  into  her 
brain,  was  the  word  "  change."  Nothing  that  was  to- 
day would  be,  the  very  atmosphere  of  Virginia  was 
dissolving  like  a  pearl-tinted  mist,  and  the  new  atmos- 
phere, arising  from  the  sterile  land  of  battlefields  would 
be,  compared  to  the  old,  opaque  and  dull,  an  atmos- 
phere stuccoed  with  materialism,  obtrusive  and  de- 
structive. 

Acutely  feeling  this,  there  was  nothing  that  greeted 
her  during  her  visit  that  was  not  sacred.  The  tat- 
tered silk  in  the  carriage,  the  mohair  sticking  out  of 
the  cushions,  the  worn  places  in  the  carpets,  the  darns 
in  the  damask  cloth,  the  linen  sheets  with  cobwebby 
spots  here  and  there,  the  tablecloths  worn  into  holes 
and  carefully  patched  and  darned,  the  lace  curtains 
hanging  in  strips,  the  broken  mirrors,  cracked  cups 


DISINTEGRATION  87 

and  saucers  and  plates,  the  coverings  falling  from  the 
sofas  and  chairs,  the  dumb  keys  of  the  musical  instru- 
ments, the  fences  tumbling  down,  the  gaps  in  the  gar- 
den, the  shapeless  vegetables,  uneven  and  grotesque 
that  came  up  of  their  own  will  in  queer  spots  and  cor- 
ners, the  barn  door  falling  off,  and  the  floor  of  the  barn 
wearing  in  holes,  the  top  of  the  well  falling  in,  the  well 
bucket  suspended  to  a  rotten  rope,  the  uncurried  horses 
and  hard  looking  mules  standing  dismayed,  all  told  of 
death,  and  were  sacred  in  her  eyes. 

Lying  in  the  bed  that  night,  wakeful  under  the  spell 
of  impressions  that  had  saddened  her,  she  was  aroused 
by  the  sound  of  buggy  wheels,  and  a  moment  later  she 
thought  she  heard  David  Lee's  voice  speaking  to  his 
horse.  Startled,  she  sat  up  and  looked  out. 

She  had  not  been  mistaken.  The  buggy  was  at  the 
gate  and,  in  the  bright  moonlight,  she  could  see  Dave 
alighting,  and  Fielding,  as  he  passed  down  the  path, 
greeting  him. 

Page  felt  her  face  flush.  If  they  were  expecting 
Dave,  why  had  she  not  been  told?  She  drew  back 
from  the  window  and  laid  back  in  her  pillows  as  a 
musical  laugh  from  Dave  fell  on  her  ear. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   BATTLE 

PAGE  was  surprised  the  next  morning  to  find  that 
she  had  spent  the  night  in  peaceful  sleep.  She  woke 
invigorated  by  the  country  air,  the  sweet  breeze  that 
blew  in  the  window  bringing  with  it  the  song  and  call 
of  birds. 

Her  first  thought  was  Dave,  and  then  conflicting 
feelings  surrounding  his  arrival.  First  she  could  not 
deny  the  sense  of  elation,  but  this  was  offset  by  the 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  Dave  was  pursuing  her, 
and  that  there  was  no  escaping  either  his  presence  or 
his  influence.  That  Cousin  Betty  was  at  the  bottom 
of  this  she  did  not  doubt,  and  charged  her  with  it  dur- 
ing the  dressing  hour. 

The  breakfast  was  a  cheerful  one,  however,  and  all, 
including  Page,  accepted  Dave's  unexpected  arrival 
as  a  sudden  desire  on  his  part  to  go  fishing  with  Field- 
ing. Cousin  Betty  was  especially  bright,  and  Aunt 
Constance  took  two  cups  of  coffee,  a  rare  indulgence, 
and  declared  that  the  country  air  had  already,  as  it 
had,  put  new  life  in  her. 

After  breakfast  the  family  dispersed  to  engage  in 
their  various  duties.  Cousin  Betty  ran  across  the  field 
to  visit  a  neighbor;  Aunt  Constance,  a  little  fatigued, 
was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the  parlor  having  a  long  talk 
with  the  anaemic  aunt,  and  Page  found  herself  stand- 
ing alone  on  the  front  porch. 

The  sun  was  not  yet  hot,  and  all  the  splendor  of  the 

88 


THE  BATTLE  89 

young  June  day  was  before  her.  A  gentle  breeze  was 
blowing  towards  her,  and  in  that  breeze  were  the 
scents  of  roses,  honeysuckle,  violets,  and  sheep  mint. 
This  latter,  trodden  by  the  servants  going  to  and  fro 
since  daylight,  yielded  its  strong,  pungent  odor  that 
Page  felt  she  would  ever  remember,  and  had  sometimes 
fancied  might  come  up  to  her  in  the  hour  of  death. 
It  was  fragrant  and  refreshing,  a  tonic  perfume,  sharp 
in  contrast  with  the  languorous  sweetness  of  the  other 
flowers. 

The  familiar  scene  affected  her  pleasurably.  The 
turkeys,  just  as  they  had  been  ever  since  she  could  re- 
member, were  strutting  aimlessly  and  proudly  about 
the  yard,  the  ducks  were  waddling,  not  proudly  but 
quite  as  though  they  were  drunk,  and  the  chickens 
were  picking  industriously  to  satisfy  appetites  that 
never  gave  them  rest.  The  sky  was  so  blue,  the  grass 
so  green,  the  hop  vines,  growing  on  the  arbor  a  little 
way  off,  so  vivid  in  shade  and  so  exquisite,  the  honey- 
suckle, climbing  on  pillars  and  railings  of  the  porch, 
so  seductive,  that  Page  stood  breathless  with  eyes  and 
nostrils  open. 

What  thoughts  had  she  not  had,  what  skies  had  she 
not  seen  from  the  low  steps  of  this  old  porch.  This 
particular  porch,  with  its  particular  flowers,  that  had 
had  its  particular  heaven  and  stars,  and  also  its  par- 
ticular souls  to  enchant,  and  Page  had  been  one  of 
those  souls.  It  was  a  very  ordinary  porch,  broad  and 
long.  Part  of  the  top  at  one  corner  was  crumbling 
away,  and  banisters  were  missing  from  the  railing.  A 
giant  framework  erected  nearly  a  century  ago  was  at 
one  end,  and  upon  it  climbed  a  multiflora  rosebush, 
which  bloomed  in  fragrant  bwnches  of  white  and  faded 
pink.  Defiantly,  from  some  seed  blown  hither,  sprang 


90         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

forth,  among  these  delicate  tinted  blooms,  the  Virginia 
creeper,  with  its  violent  scarlet  blossoms,  and,  over  all, 
yellow  bees  and  humming  birds  were  circling  and 
quivering. 

She  took  it  all  in  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  lost  in  a  beau- 
tiful dream,  when  Dave  came  through  the  open  door, 
and  took  his  stand  by  her  side. 

"Page!" 

"Yes,  Dave?" 

"  I  was  a  little  brutal  the  other  evening  —  have  you 
forgiven  it?  " 

"Oh!     Yes." 

"  It's  sweet  to  be  in  the  country,  this  lovely  June 
morning,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  then  asked. 

"  Very,"  answered  Page. 

"  We  have  been  visiting  this  old  home,  sometimes 
separately,  sometimes  together,  ever  since  we  were  little 
children;  haven't  we?  I  couldn't  stand  here,  on  this 
old  porch,  many  moments  and  not  think  of  you,  nor 
could  you  stand  here  many  moments,  Page,  and  not 
think  of  me." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  for  a  while  they  listened 
to  a  bird  that  broke  the  stillness  with  a  clear  rapturous 
song.  Then  Dave  continued : 

"  No  matter  what  our  future  may  be,  no  matter 
what  is  in  store  for  either  you  or  me,  one  of  the  vivid 
backgrounds  of  our  lives  will  be  this  old  porch,  for 
here,  in  one  wa^r  or  another,  through  the  various  peri- 
ods of  our  existtnce,  I  have  poured  my  love  into  you. 
Oh !  What  memories  for  the  future  —  memories  of 
the  silence,  the  odors,  the  damp  chill,  or  the  moisture, 
or  the  heat,  they  will  all  be  with  me,"  he  tried  to  gaze 
into  her  eyes,  but  she  kept  them  fixed  on  a  humming 
bird  that  had  settled  on  a  honeysuckle  blossom,  "  and 


THE  BATTLE  91 

with  you  forever  and  forever.  How  many  nights, 
tortured  by  my  love  for  you,  bewildered  by  some  vision 
of  you,  due  to  some  especial  picture  of  you  in  a  cer- 
tain dress,  or  a  certain  flower  worn  by  you  that  ac- 
centuated your  beauty,  or  an  old  song  sung  by  you  that 
had  stirred  all  my  being,  have  I  risen  from  my  bed, 
while  the  household  slept,  and  stolen  down  here  to 
saturate  myself  with  all  the  sweetness  of  the  night, 
while  I  thought  of  you.  You,  too,  have  done  the 
same  ;  one  night  we  met  —  do  you  remember  ?  You 
do,  for  my  lips  pressed  yours  that  night.  Page !  " 
He  leaned  lightly  against  her.  "  It  was  very  sweet, 
that  virgin  kiss,  and  the  weeks  that  followed  when  you 
would  not  look  into  my  eyes.  You  cannot  forget  that 
kiss,  Page.  It  entered  into  your  being,  just  as  the 
gust  of  wind  over  the  clover  field  —  you  remember  the 
scene  of  the  clover  that  night  —  never  to  depart.  It  en- 
tered into  you  and  became  a  part  of  you,  and  all  who 
come  into  your  presence  will  feel  it  as  they  will  feel 
all  the  other  things  that  entered  into  you,  that  night, 
whether  from  the  heavens  or  the  fields  or  the  old  gar- 
den over  there,  or  the  woods  or  the  lake  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  or  the  river  —  all  that  was  of  your  youth  in 
Virginia." 

He  pressed  nearer  to  her  and  pointed  to  a  little 
gnarled  peach  tree  that  grew  in  one  corner  of  the 
fence. 

"  Even  that  old  peach  tree  is  a  part  of  you.  The 
peaches  never  amounted  to  much  and  have  but  a  faint 
flavor;  they  have  been  called  flavorless,  but  they  were 
not  flavorless  to  you  and  to  me,  when  we  gathered 
them.  You  have  watched  that  tree  bloom  and  get  its 
leaves,  and  drop  its  blossoms  and  bring  forth  its  fruit, 
and  you  have  seen  that  fruit  ripen  and  have  eaten  of 


92         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

it  That  fruit  is  a  part  of  you,  and  all  will  feel  the 
influence  of  it" 

He  saw  that  a  look  of  ecstasy  had  come  into  her  face, 
and  continued : 

"  Look  beyond  it  to  the1  far-reaching  field.  That 
life-everlasting,  growing  wild  there  is  a  part  of  you, 
Page,  and  those  tall  flowers  they  call  weeds  that  grow 
high  and  have  a  white  umbrella  at  the  top  of  each 
stem,  they  are  a  part  of  you!  These  blackberry 
bushes  growing  riotously  on  the  rail  fences,  down  the 
lanes,  and  around  the  fields  and  that  flower  and  smell 
so  faintingly  sweet  and  then  bring  forth  fruit  that 
has  dyed  your  fingers  and  the  inside  of  your  mouth  a 
rich  purple,  they  are  a  part  of  you !  You  are  made  up 
of  all  these  beautiful  Virginia  scenes  and  scents  and 
tastes.  Do  you  not  feel  the  charm  of  all  this,  and  is 
not  ours  a  wonderful  land,  Page?  Even  its  tragedies, 
the  awful  blight  and  disaster  that  befell  it,  lend  it  dig- 
nity!" 

"  Dave,"  exclaimed  Page,  "  all  that  you  say  is  true, 
but  what  part  are  we  taking  in  the  great  world  ?  Who 
is  thinking  of  us  and  remembering  us?  " 

"  Thinking  of  us  —  remembering  us  ? "  Dave 
laughed.  "  Why,  we  are  thinking  of  ourselves  —  re- 
membering each  other!  Haven't  we  Virginians  ever 
been  sufficient  unto  ourselves,  Page !  I  grant  that  we 
are  not  at  present  figuring  conspicuously,  and  that 
much  that  made  us  what  we  were  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  has  been  swept  away,  but  there  is  still  some- 
thing here,  an  intangible  something  that  can  never  be 
swept  away,  or  be  destroyed.  Our  dead  heroes  breathe 
it  into  our  ears  through  their  silence;  our  martyred 
youth  through  their  extinction;  our  broken-hearted 
appeal  by  their  courage  in  denying  their  broken  hearts ! 


THE  BATTLE  93 

You  cannot  escape  your  heritage,  Page!  Go  where 
you  will,  do  what  you  will,  and  old  Virginia,  defeated, 
blighted  as  she  is,  will  claim  you  still !  " 

"  It  isn't  old  Virginia,"  cried  Page,  apparently  fol- 
lowing her  own  thoughts,  "that  I  turn  from,  Dave; 
it's  new  Virginia." 

"  New  Virginia,"  demanded  Dave  sharply,  "  what 
is  that?  When  I  hear  all  this  talk  of  old  and  new 
Virginia,  indignation  burns  me !  It  is,  and  always  will 
be,  the  same  old  Virginia!  When  the  grandchildren 
of  to-day  are  grand-parents,  it  will  still  be  the  same 
old  Virginia!  That  the  life  is  different,  I  do  not  deny. 
We  do  not  live,  we  never  will  live  again  as  we  did, 
but  just  as  surely  as  the  birds  sing  their  same  songs, 
in  spite  of  killing  frosts,  so  will  we  sing  our  same  song ! 
A  chilling  frost  fell  upon  us;  we  were  struck  a  blow 
almost  too  hard  to  bear.  Many  were  killed  and  many 
were  wounded  past  recovery,  if  not  in  body  in  spirit, 
but  there  is  a  white- faced  convalescent  army,  still  weak 
in  the  knees,  still  a  bit  dazed,  struggling  forward  un- 
daunted and  undismayed,  and  they  or  their  descendants 
—  these  unconquered  remnants  of  old  Virginia  —  will 
in  due  time  take  the  place  of  their  ancestors  —  be  at 
the  head  of  this  nation!  There  is  no  new  Virginia, 
Page,  but  a  future  for  old  Virginia,  and  if  we  could 
look  into  that  future,  who  shall  say  that  we  might  not 
cease  our  repining  for  the  past?  The  future  Virginia 
will  ever  be  a  part  of  the  past  Virginia,  for  here  will 
dwell  forever  the  graves  of  the  brave,  the  homes  of 
the  descendants  of  the  brave,  and  the  monuments  of 
the  brave.  Here  the  same  flowers  will  bloom,  the 
same  cedars  stand  erect,  and  the  same  brooks  laugh 
and  leap  to  the  same  old  hollows.  There  can  be  no 
new  Virginia  until  the  very  blood  of  old  Virginia  runs 


94         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

dry,  and  not  then,  for  if  all  her  citizens  were  to  fall 
in  battle  to-morrow,  their  sentiments  would  cling  to 
the  rocks  and  hills  and  tree-tops  tand  running  streams 
and  be  perpetuated  forever !  " 

"  Dave,  that  is  your  view !  Even  if  it  were  the  true 
view,  there  is  something,  it  may  only  be  war's  after- 
math, that  is  weighing  upon  me,  so  that  I  feel  I  must 
flee  away  from  it!  With  the  exception  of  Nina,  look 
at  this  household !  " 

"  What  of  this  household?  Sorrows  and  cares  are 
here,  I  know,  but  there  is  a  tranquillity  born  of  patience, 
the  bending  to,  of  what  to  them  is  God's  will,  and  love 
for  one  another  that  nothing  can  overthrow.  That 
you  should  be  blind  to  this,  is  what  I  cannot  under- 
stand ;  you  ought  to  be  a  part  of  it !  " 

A  nervous  spasm  seemed  to  pass  over  her,  and  she 
wrung  her  hands. 

"  But  I  am  not !  I  am  not,  and  I  can't  make  any 
one  understand!  I  feel  an  oppression  that  is  beyond 
words !  It  seems  to  me  that  the  slavery  that  fell  from 
the  shoulders  of  our  slaves  has  fallen  upon  us!  We 
ire  slaves  —  all  of  us !  Slaves  of  poverty,  slaves  of 
old  ideas,  slaves  to  each  other,  slaves  of  ourselves !  I 
am  a  slave,  I  feel  myself  a  slave  of  a  thousand  intan- 
gible, but  real  things  that  hold  me  bound  hand  and 
foot.  I  can't  bear  it!  I  want  to  be  free — free,  if 
only  for  a  little  while  to  see  myself,  free  to  do  some- 
thing out  of  the  ordinary  routine;  free  to  be  an  indi- 
vidual not  like  every  one  else!  I  tell  you,  Dave,  we 
are  all  submerging  our  individuality  in  old  ideas !  We 
live  alike,  think  alike,  do  the  same  things  day  after 
day!  I  want  new  people,  new  thoughts,  a  new  en- 
vironment to  stand  alone  in  and  find  out  what  I  am  — 
what  I  contain,  what  is  in  me  —  why  I  am  —  what  I 


THE  BATTLE  95 

am  for !  A  stifled  personality  is  crying  out  for  breath, 
breath,  breath  —  breath !  And  besides,  I  want  to  be 
something  in  the  world !  " 

"  You  can  be  something  in  the  world,"  cried  Dave, 
"by  staying  here;  that  in  itself,  Page,  may  make  of 
you  a  heroine ! " 

"  A  martyred  heroine !  I  tell  you  we  are  tied  — • 
tied  to  a  dead 'past.  We  are  afraid  of  it,  and  afraid 
of  ourselves,  afraid  to  advance  to  a  new  idea,  a  new 
thought,  afraid  to  do  anything  but  cling  with  all  our 
might  and  main  to  the  rotting,  disintegrating  old !  " 

"  Why  not,  since  that  old  represented  a  dream-life 
so  irresistible  that  the  world  held  its  breath?  We  do 
not  want  the  new  here  but  the  old,  as  far  as  possible, 
renewed  and  kept  alive !  " 

"  That  is  a  mad  dream !  May  I  show  you  a  pic- 
ture? Fielding  and  Robert  Hughes  with  Emily  stand- 
ing between  them !  That  is  what  is  to  be  —  things 
like  that.  And  I  tell  you  I  am  afraid,  a  terrible  dread 
is  upon  me  lest  I  be  one  of  the  foundaton  stones,  buried 
in  the  earth,  upon  which  the  new  things  will  be  built. 
I  want  to  run  away  from  what  rises  up  this  very  mo- 
ment before  my  eyes." 

They  were  blazing  as  she  spoke,  and  her  voice  was 
that  of  a  young  prophetess. 

"  I  tell  you,  that  nothing  that  has  been  will  be,  and 
that  we  of  the  aristocracy  must  go  to  the  wall!  We 
are  the  vanquished  ones,  and  in  our  places  there  is 
rising  up  a  new  and  victorious  army,  headed  by  the 
common  people!  Their  opportunity  is  at  hand,  they 
know  it  and  will  take  advantage  of  it  as  Robert  Hughes 
has!  Their  very  hope  is  in  the  pathos  of  our  situa- 
tion, and  they  will  be  aided  by  slaves  of  luxury  like 
Cousin  Edmund.  Old  Virginia  is  dead  and  the  new 


96         THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Virginia  is  in  the  hands  of  a  silent  enemy,  bent  upon 
her  extinction." 

"  If  that  is  your  belief,  Page,"  Dave  cried,  with 
pulses  throbbing  and  eyes  ablaze,  "  a  sacred  and  tre- 
mendous responsibility  rests  upon  you,  a  responsibility 
that  if  properly  shouldered  will  make  of  you  one  of  an 
army  of  heroines  second  only  to  Joan  of  Arc,  who 
gladly  went  to  the  stake  for  her  France !  " 

"  And  what  is  that?" 

"  To  be  a  light  in  this  overspreading  darkness !  " 

Breathless  silence  followed  Dave's  words.  Never 
had  woman  in  Virginia  spoken  as  Page  had,  and  for  a 
moment  it  staggered  him,  angered  him,  but  he  con- 
trolled his  emotions,  and  when  he  spoke  his  voice  was 
steady  and  rang  out  like  a  bell. 

"  Not  before,  Page,  has  this  sentence  of  death  of 
the  old  life  of  Virginia  been  so  boldly  proclaimed.  I 
do  not  say  that  we  have  not  felt  it,  many  of  us  have, 
in  our  hearts  we  knew  it  —  Uncle  Ran  knew  it  when 
he  retired  from  the  world  of  action  to  the  four  walls 
of  his  home  —  I  have  felt  it  all  my  life,  but  I  have 
tried  to  stifle  those  feelings !  Our  despair,  yes,  if  need 
be,  but  our  despair  in  silence  and  lit  by  hope!  The 
conditions  before  the  war  were  favorable,  I  admit,  to 
the  cultivation  and  preservation  of  sentiment,  chivalry, 
courage  —  in  short,  to  the  natural  development  of  the 
best  in  men  and  women.  Now  that  the  conditions 
are  unfavorable,  all  the  more  need  of  trying  to  per- 
petuate these  things!  In  cultivating  and  preserving 
the  virtues  of  our  ancestors,  we  will  by  example  cause 
those  who  are  beneath  us  to  respect,  emulate,  and,  to 
some  extent,  preserve  those  virtues.  One  man  with 
courage  and  tenacity  of  purpose  has  often  sufficed 
to  raise  up  his  whole  people  to  higher  standards.  But 


THE  BATTLE  97 

that  is  not  our  task.  We  are  to  teach  our  people  to 
maintain  their  old  standards!  We  are  to  preserve  and 
perpetuate  those  standards  of  the  old  South,  the  old 
South  with  its  poetry,  its  fragrance,  its  genuineness,  its 
courtesy,  and  its  honor.  That  new  thoughts  that  will 
form  new  habits  are  in  the  air  no  one  can  deny;  all  the 
more  reason  for  preserving  the  old  thoughts !  " 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you !  Men  like  your  Uncle 
Randolph  can  afford  to  revere  and  cherish  and  live  in 
resigned  contemplation  of  the  old.  Their  day  of  ac- 
tion is  over;  they  may  content  themselves  by  living 
in  the  memories  of  a  vanished  dream,  but  we  who  are 
the  outcome  of  that  dream  have  a  new  life  with  new 
duties  before  us  —  first  of  all  the  duty  to  self!  " 

"  Page,  Page,  what  madness  is  this  that  has  taken 
possession  of  you  and  blinded  you  to  all  things  except 
yourself!  Grant  that  all  you  say  is  true,  have  you  no 
desire  to,  as  I  just  said,  be  a  light  in  the  overspreading 
darkness?  Can  you  really  think  of  deserting  those 
older  than  you  —  those  who  have  borne,  and  are  still 
bearing  patiently  their  deprivations,  mortifications, 
and  bitter  anguish,  those  who  need  you  to  lean  upon? 
Should  you  not  remain  by  their  side  to  be  a  comfort 
to  them,  to  extend  hope,  even  the  hope  that  you  may 
not  believe  in,  that  all  that  they  cherish  and  value  will 
net,  even  though  they  themselves  are  perishing,  perish  ? 
Should  not  we,  you  and  I  and  those  like  us,  of  our  gen- 
eration, keep  alive  as  far  as  possible,  their  sentiments 
for  them?  "  He  leaned  forward,  took  up  one  of  her 
hands  and  pressed  it.  "  Our  dear  stricken  ones, 
Page!" 

Dave  was  talking  on  broad  lines,  but  Page  recog- 
nized that  back  of  it  was  the  personal  appeal  and  with- 
drew her  hand. 


98          THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

A  nettled,  half -pained  look  crossed  his  features,  but 
he  controlled  them  and  took  up  his  theme  in  an  even 
gentler  tone. 

"  I  know,  dearest  heart,"  he  said,  "  that  with  your 
impressionable  temperament,  the  present  is  often  try- 
ing, and  that  the  future  looms  dark  before  you;  it  does 
to  us  all,  if  we  pause  to  admit  it,  but  the  lights  you  see 
beckoning  you  beyond  us  all,  those  gleaming  lights  in 
the  far  distance,  are  false  lights.  Blind  your  eyes  to 
them.  I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty  at  this  time  to  warn 
you!  Grant  me  disinterestedness  in  the  sacred  office 
of  friendship.  Perhaps  you  will  say  that  self-interest 
is  influencing  me ;  so  it  is  —  I  love  you,  but  your  in- 
terest, believe  me,  is  my  -first  thought!  I  don't  want 
you  to  go  to  New  York,  even  for  a  month,  even  for  a 
week  or  a  day!  The  atmosphere  of  a  great  city  like 
New  York  is  infectious.  No  one  is  immune.  There 
is  a  New  York  fever  that  none  escape!  Those  who 
catch  it  are  weaned  from  home  and  their  friends  — 
they  know  not  why.  The  glamour,  the  daily  spectacle 
—  like  the  gladiatorial  fights  of  the  Romans  —  inter- 
est them.  They  feel  lost  without  its  excitements.  They 
get  lonely  and  heart  sick  if  they  are  not  in  the  turmoil. 
It  is  no  place  for  you.  Your  place  is  here,  your  mis- 
sion —  the  mission  of  every  Virginia  girl  —  to  be  the 
wife  of  an  honest  man  and  to  inspire  that  man  to  do 
great  things  that  will  redound  to  the  glory  of  his  name 
and  shed  luster  on  his  native  state.  Page,  are  you 
listening  to  me?  " 

"Yes!" 

"  With  my  heart  and  brain  full  of  you,  I  visited  Co- 
ton  Hall  the  other  day.  What  a  wreck,  but  what  a 
sacred  wreck,  with  a  foundation  that  cannot  be  de- 
stroyed, an  atmosphere  that  wealth  cannot  buy !  I  en- 


THE  BATTLE  99 

tered  it  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  I  came  out  with  triumph 
in  my  soul.  What  a  life  was  lived  there,  what  noble 
thoughts,  what  courageous  dreams !  These  things  — 
those  thoughts  and  feelings  of  my  ancestors  have 
buried  themselves  in  the  very  walls  and  to  those  in  tune 
with  them,  shine  like  jewels.  Before  I  left,  the  place 
seemed  illuminated.  It  is  for  sale  —  let  me  strive  to 
offer  it  to  you,  Page  —  together  with  a  love  that  has 
burned  and  glowed  and  strengthened  for  you  every  day 
of  my  life.  I  say  I  offer  it  to  you,  for  with  your  love 
I  can  win  anything  I  try  for  —  as  yet  I  know  not  how 
—  but  that  I  can  I  feel  sure.  Page!  " 

"  Yes !  " 

"  Answer  me !  I  know  that  I  am  right.  Your  part 
is  in  our  glorious  stricken  land,  where  as  in  every  other 
spot  on  God's  green  earth  each  human  soul  may  have 
the  chance  he  makes  for  himself!  I  cannot  see  you 
in  any  other  sphere !  Oh !  my  beloved,  believe  me,  the 
mistress  of  the  humblest  Virginia  homestead,  seated  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  surrounded  by  her  sons  and 
daughters,  and  with  the  master  of  the  house  smiling 
upon  her,  is  the  real  queen  with  the  crown  of  gold, 
and  the  others,  those  queens  of  a  materialistic  exist- 
ence, are  the  sham  queens  with  diadems  of  paste. 
With  your  youth  and  beauty  you  see  those  diadems  of 
paste  within  your  grasp.  But  oh,  Page,  when  you  find 
out  they  are  paste,  when  they  pall  and  pale  what  is  there 
left?  Youth  and  beauty  fade,  pleasures  forsake,  even 
those  who  have  sacrificed  their  souls  in  their  pursuit. 
Oh !  and  the  awakening  —  the  bitterness,  the  years 
hold  for  the  man  or  woman  who  sells  his  or  her  birth- 
right for  a  mess  of  pottage!  But  why  these  useless 
words !  "  A  light,  triumphant  laugh  escaped  him,  the 
laugh  she  knew  and  had  heard  the  night  before  on  his 


ioo        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

arrival,  the  laugh  with  its  slightly  cruel  masculine 
ring.  "  They  are  useless  words,  Page,  for,  do  what 
you  will,  you  cannot  escape  Virginia.  No  Virginian 
can !  You  may  take  your  body  away,  you  may  go  to 
the  North,  or  the  far  South,  or  the  East  or  the  West, 
you  may  cross  the  seas  and  scale  the  highest  peaks  of 
Switzerland's  highest  mountain,  but  your  soul  will  al- 
ways be  here!  Look  at  me!"  He  turned  her  face 
to  him  and  fixed  his  eyes  in  hers.  "  You  may  give 
your  body  to  another,  live  in  daily  contact  with  an- 
other all  your  days,  but  your  heart  will  be  with  me. 
You  cannot  escape  Virginia,  Page,  and  you  cannot 
escape  me.  What  answer  have  you  for  me  ?  " 

His  last  words  were  not  a  question  but  a  command, 
and  a  flash  of  anger  swept  through  her. 

She  stood  back  from  him  with  heightened  color  and 
slightly  lifted  her  head,  exulting  in  his  love  for  her 
and  her  old  power  over  him. 

"  No  answer!  "  she  cried.  "  You  followed  me  here, 
ran  me  to  cover,  but  you  cannot  bend  me  to  your  will 
nor  deter  me  from  my  purpose !  " 

For  a  moment  he  regarded  her  critically.  Then  he 
laughed  again,  and  this  time  there  was  a  note  of  harsh- 
ness. 

He  turned  and  walked  away  from  her  with  a  rapid 
stride.  Her  eyes  followed  him  as  he  joined  Fielding 
plowing  in  a  distant  field. 

The  curb  bit  was  a  thing  David  Lee  had  detested 
all  his  life,  but  by  the  time  he  reached  Fielding  he  had 
decided  to  use  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   FLOWER   GIRL 

THE  day  passed  as  all  fair  days  in  the  country  pass. 
Changes  took  place  in  the  heavens  as  in  a  moving 
panorama ;  shadows  fell  on  the  grass  at  the  accustomed 
hour ;  the  song  of  birds  grew  less  frequent  as  the  heat 
increased,  and  more  frequent  as  it  diminished. 

The  routine  of  the  house  was  in  no  way  disturbed 
by  the  arrival  of  guests,  the  family  being  as  used  to 
company  as  to  themselves.  Events  occurred  as  they 
must  in  every  household;  guests  came  and  went,  but 
the  life  of  patient  duty  went  on  just  the  same,  even  as 
the  ocean's  tides  go  in  and  out,  though  the  gayest  ships 
sail  upon  its  surface  or  wrecks  seek  its  bottom. 

Page  took  her  place  with  the  rest,  sewing  a  little 
with  Liela,  going  to  the  smoke-house  with  Maria, 
watching  with  Elva  the  preserving  caldron  that  hung 
above  a  chip  fire  in  the  yard. 

She  was  in  a  peculiar  mood  and  moved  about  aim- 
lessly without  interest,  her  mind  fixed  upon  Dave,  his 
voice,  with  its  oratorical  cadence,  lingering  in  her  ears. 
What  Dave  had  told  her  concerning  herself  that  night 
on  Gamble's  Hill  was  quite  true.  He  had  changed;  a 
new  man  was  confronting  her  and  this  newness,  the 
novelty  of  it,  excited  her  interest. 

When  he  finally  returned  to  the  house  Nina  was 
with  him. 

Page  saw  them  from  the  window.  Nina  had  in  her 
arms  a  large  bunch  of  peonies,  and  Page  noticed  that 


102        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

an  unusual  radiance  seemed  shining  in  her  face  as  she 
archly  looked  up  at  Dave,  who  was  smiling. 

An  old  feeling  of  resentment  of  Nina,  quite  familiar 
to  her,  awakened  and  stirred  uncomfortably.  Nina 
had  always  been  regarded  by  Page  in  the  light  of  a 
rival  —  in  a  general  sense.  The  girl's  dazzling  Juno- 
like  appearance,  had  often,  she  felt,  eclipsed  her  own, 
which  was  of  a  more  persuasive,  appealing  nature. 
There  had  been  occasions  at  parties  when  it  was  Nina, 
not  she,  who  had  reigned  as  the  belle. 

While  Nina  was  imperious  and  commanding,  she 
was  withal  a  witch  among  men.  The  sight  of  her 
turned  their  heads.  She  was  a  buoyant,  wild  creature 
with  the  strength  of  a  young  antelope.  She  danced 
with  the  fire  of  a  Russian;  rode  horseback  like  the 
cavaliers;  she  eulogized  and  emulated;  she  was  a  boy 
girl  with  all  the  femininity  of  a  goddess ;  she  was  like 
a  goddess  captured  by  fate  and  imprisoned  in  this  old 
home  along  with  seven  doleful  martyrs.  Nobody  in 
—  or  out  of  the  family  —  had  ever  been  able  to  account 
for  Nina  blooming  like  a  flaming  red  rose  in  the  center 
of  a  desert.  She  had  hazel  eyes  made  up  of  brown 
and  yellow  stripes  that  dazzled ;  a  complexion  like  a 
camelia  leaf,  and  a  wealth  of  red  hair  that  covered  her 
head  like  a  crown  of  fire,  and,  when  unbound,  fell 
over  upon  her  over-full  bust  and  Grecian  shoulders  in 
riotous  and  voluptuous  showers. 

Page  saw  and  heard  Dave  obeying  her  orders.  He 
drew  fresh  water  from  the  well  at  her  command,  and 
helped  her  arrange  the  flowers  in  a  large  bowl  in  the 
hall.  Then  they  entered  the  parlor  and  remained  there 
alone  in  the  darkened  room  playing  checkers.  It  was 
a  merry  game,  and  Page  could  hear  Nina's  laugh,  a 
young  laugh,  full  of  the  triumph  of  youth  and  con- 


THE  FLOWER  GIRL  103 

scions  power.  The  game  continued  for  two  hours,  un- 
til, in  fact,  the  "  kitchen  bell  "  rang  a  signal  for  din- 
ner. Once  a  scuffle  had  ensued  during  the  game,  and, 
rising  from  her  seat  and  glancing  in,  Page  had  seen 
Dave  chasing  Nina  about  the  room.  He  captured 
her  and  was  wresting  something  from  her  hand  when 
her  wealth  of  hair  tumbled  down. 

"  It's  my  king!  "  Nina  was  crying,  but  Dave,  with 
a  sharp  pressure  on  her  hand,  caused  her  fingers  to 
open  to  him  and  he  took  it.  Nina's  head  was  thrown 
back,  a  defiant  look  in  her  face,  an  admiring  one  in 
his,  and,  as  their  eyes  met,  Page  felt  her  heart  con- 
tract, and  a  sudden  blindness  came  over  her.  For  an 
instant  she  hated  them  both,  for  acute  jealousy  is  mo- 
mentary hatred  of  the  cne  who  inflicts  it  as  well  as 
the  one  who  inspires  it. 

After  dinner  Dave  went  off  again  to  the  fields  with 
Fielding,  but  at  five  o'clock  he  drove  up  to  the  house  in 
his  buggy,  and  Nina,  who  had  already  been  seated  in 
the  hall  with  her  hat  on,  flew  to  the  gate,  leaped  to  his 
side,  not  waiting  to  be  "  helped,"  and  they  drove  off 
and  did  not  return  until  ail  the  others  w^ere  seated  at 
the  supper  table. 

This  time  the  girl  had  roses  in  her  arms,  they  had 
been  given  to  her  by  a  neighbor;  she  had  lost  her  hat 
and  was  laughing  about  it  and  telling  Dave  that  it  was 
all  his  fault  driving  so  fast  down  the  hill.  She  flew 
around  the  table,  kissing  her  mother  and  her  aunt 
and  all  the  five  sisters ;  stuck  a  rose  in  Aunt  Constance's 
hair,  and  told  Cousin  Betty  all  the  rest  were  for  her 
except  one  big  one  that  she  had  picked  out  for  Page ! 

Page  took  the  rose  with  an  effort,  feeling  that  she 
would  like  to  fasten  her  teeth  in  the  firm  white  hand 
that  presented  it.  She  glanced  at  Dave,  but  he  had 


104 

taken  his  seat  and  was  talking  in  a  lively  strain  to 
Cousin  Betty. 

Fielding  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  table  cut- 
ting slices  of  ham,  and  Nina  merrily  took  the  plates 
and  helped  everybody  before  she  took  her  seat. 

When  supper  was  over  Page  again  strolled  to  the 
porch  and  stood  with  her  hands  on  the  railing  looking 
out.  A  full  moon  had  risen  and  the  grounds  and 
roads  and  fields  were  so  lit  up  that  they  seemed  to  be 
covered  in  a  light  fall  of  snow.  The  silence  was 
intense,  broken  only  by  the  insect  orchestra  that  fell 
upon  her  ear  awakening  memories. 

Finally  Dave  came  out  and  took  his  stand  beside 
her,  the  same  as  in  the  morning,  and  she  turned  and 
looked  him  squarely  in  the  face. 

"  How  I  have  hated  you  to-day !  "  she  exclaimed 
under  her  breath,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  deadly  pale, 
paler  than  the  moonlight  could  account  for. 

He  made  no  reply,  forcing  upon  her  a  kind  of  ten- 
derness of  manner  that  she  resented.  She  was  about 
to  turn  from  him  and  re-enter  the  house,  from  which 
voices  in  conversation  were  reaching  them,  when  Nina 
came  out. 

She  had  changed  her  gown  and  looked  a  young  god- 
dess indeed  in  a  dress  of  some  white  clinging  material 
and  with  a  white  rose  pinned  on  her  breast  and  one  in 
her  hair. 

Page  felt  all  the  girl's  delight  in  herself  and  a  cer- 
tain robustness  and  health  about  her  that  she  feared 
as  a  contrast  to  her  morbidness  and  pallor.  She 
recognized,  with  a  kind  of  start,  that  she  had  grown 
thin  recently  and  struggled  to  maintain  her  courage 
and  ease  of  manner  before  Dave  and  this  exuberant 
and  exultant  girl. 


THE  FLOWER  GIRL  105 

"Aren't  you  feeling  well,  Page?"  the  girl  asked, 
slipping  an  arm  about  her.  "  You  seemed  so  silent 
at  supper,  and  why  did  you  come  out  here  all  alone? 
Let's  take  a  walk  down  to  the  big  gate.  Fielding  will 
•be  busy  for  an  hour  yet,  Dave !  " 

She  was  still  in  her  merry  mood  and  Page  had  to 
succumb  to  her  dragging  them  both  along  with  her. 

The  night  had  grown  cool  and  refreshing  with  the 
strong  pungent  scents  of  the  fields  pressing  inward. 

Out  in  the  open  road  Nina's  spirits  rose  beyond 
bounds.  She  dropped  Page's  hand  and  still  holding 
by  one  of  Dave's,  she  ran  like  a  deer,  dragging  him 
after  her.  She  kept  this  up  for  quite  a  distance  and 
then  she  stopped  breathless,  and,  laughing,  held  her 
hand  to  her  beating  heart. 

Page,  also  in  a  white  dress,  was  following  wearily. 
She  wanted  to  turn  back  but  could  not  do  so  for  fear 
of  betraying  her  feelings.  Nina  knew  full  well  that 
Dave  had  always  been  in  love  with  Page  and  the  slight- 
est action  on  her  part  would  only  add  to  the  girl's 
triumph  that  he  had  neglected  Page  for  her. 

She  resented  Nina  fiercely,  far  more  so  than 
Martha  Morton.  All  her  ugliest  emotions  were 
aroused,  emotions  that  retrospectively  always  surprised 
her.  She  would  have  liked  to  injure  the  girl,  efface 
her,  but  she  had  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  one  of  her 
mad  pranks  or  appear  before  her  ridiculous.  Her  feet 
almost  refused  to  carry  her  along.  For  one  instant 
she  did  pause,  and  there  came  over  her,  accompanied 
by  a  feeling  of  helplessness,  the  feminine  desire  to  de- 
stroy all  the  women  in  the  world  and  stand  alone. 

She  recovered  from  this  and  walked  on  dazed, 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  was  doing  or  thinking. 

Suddenly  she  experienced  another  one  of  those  emo- 


io6        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

tions  common  to  her,  when  in  her  own  sight  she  was 
but  a  nonentity,  a  piece  of  lifeless  clay,  something 
spiritless  —  useless.  She  felt  her  courage,  before  this 
insolently  dominating  creature,  fresher,  younger,  more 
luxuriant  than  herself,  completely  fail  her. 

Then  she  saw  that  Dave  had  left  Nina  and  was  com- 
ing back  for  her  and  her  heart  leaped. 

When  he  reached  her,  he  stopped  with  his  back  to 
Nina,  in  front  of  her. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  to-night,  Page,"  he  said, 
"  before  you  retire.  When  the  others  go  up  come  out 
on  the  porch.  I  shall  be  waiting  for  you." 

"  There  is  nothing  for  you  to  say  to  me,"  she 
answered  coldly. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  to  say,"  he  returned.  "  I 
shall  expect  you." 

Then  they  went  forward  and  Nina  strolled  towards 
them. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   CURB   BIT 

'  You  made  such  a  point  of  asking  me  to  wait  up 
to-night  to  speak  to  you  that  I  did  so,"  said  Page  in  a 
cold  voice  from  the  doorway  that  led  to  the  porch 
where  Dave  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  railing 
in  the  shadow  of  the  multiflora  rose  vine.  His  eyes 
had  been  fixed  for  some  moments  on  the  doorway. 
As  she  appeared  and  spoke,  he  put  out  his  hand. 
"  Come  here,  Page." 

"  Can't  you  say  what  you  wish  to  from  there?  "  she 
asked.  "  I  am  a  little  tired  to-night;  I  wish  to  go  up- 
stairs." 

"  No,  I  cannot,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  —  come  here !  " 

Resenting  the  command  in  his  tone,  yet  unable  to 
resist  it,  she  approached  him  reluctantly. 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  to  say  to  me?  " 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"  That  I  love  you  —  that  I  never  have  loved  you  as 
I  have  to-day !  " 

"  You  showed  it,"  she  returned  and  instantly  re- 
gretted her  words. 

"  No,  I  didn't  show  it  —  I  hid  it !  I've  been  acting 
a  part,  an  unworthy  part!  I  was  wondering  before 
you  appeared  just  now  if  there  was  anything  I  would 
not  do  for  the  sake  of  my  love!  I  know  I  would  do 
all  the  great  things,  I  believe  now  I  would  do  all  the 
wicked  things,  even  the  mean,  low,  cruel  things. 
There  is  no  height  I  would  not  try  to  ascend  to,  no 

107 


depths  I  would  not  stoop  to!  I've  been  guilty  of  a 
trick  to-day;  I've  been  trying  to  make  you  jealous !  I 
hope  I  succeeded,  for  I  suffered  enough.  I  broke 
down,  I  drove  that  girl  home  like  mad;  her  hat  blew 
off  and  I  wouldn't  stop  to  let  her  pick  it  up  —  I  realized 
I  had  been  throwing  away  precious  hours.  When  I 
got  here  I  was  strong ;  I  wouldn't  meet  your  eyes ;  I 
kept  it  up  —  the  day  is  gone,  and  I  haven't  been  with 
you  —  it's  gone  and  I  never  can  get  it  back !  Do  you 
understand  now  why  I  asked  you  to  come  out  here  to 
me  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  seemed  very  content  with  Nina," 
answered  Page. 

"  Then  you  pay  a  tribute  to  my  acting ;  I  tried  to 
appear  to  you  content  —  more  —  I  was  trying  to  make 
you  jealous!  I  look  upon  Nina  as  Fielding  does,  and 
her  sisters  do.  She's  a  dear,  brave,  courageous  girl, 
making  the  best  of  life  out  of  nothing;  I  always  think 
of  her  as  dancing  at  a  funeral  to  keep  from  breaking 
down ;  she's  the  most  heroic  little  thing  in  all  the  world ! 
She  hates  the  idea  of  teaching  as  I  might  hate  the  idea 
of  Hell  itself,  but  she  told  me  to-day  she  was  trying 
hard  to  get  a  position  so  as  to  take  some  of  the  burden 
off  of  Fielding.  It  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes,  poor 
little  brave  soul,  and  I  used  her  to-day,  used  her  as  a 
tool  to  fight  my  own  battle.  It  made  me  ashamed !  I 
repeat,  is  there  anything  I  wouldn't  do  for  the  sake 
of  my  love  for  you!  And  how  little  comprehension 
you  seem  to  have  of  it !  " 

He  pushed  her  almost  roughly  from  him  and  they 
stood  a  while  in  silence. 

The  old  house  was  quiet;  the  moon  was  under  a 
cloud,  all  was  darkness  except  for  a  light  that 
streamed  from  the  library  window,  where  Fielding  was 


THE  CURB  BIT  109 

waiting  for  Dave,  and  settled  on  the  ground  like  a 
mammoth  jewel.  Nothing  but  silence  and  darkness 
and  the  sweet  odors  pouring  forth  from  garden  and 
field  like  a  song. 

"  One  instant  to-night,"  Dave  finally  continued,  "  it 
all,  all  that  I  had  been  trying  to  do  to  inflict  pain  on 
you,  seemed  worth  while.  It  was  in  the  road  when 
you  lost  confidence  in  yourself  and  faltered  and  wanted 
to  go  back;  the  moment  when  I  felt  that  you  needed 
me  and  I  went  back  to  meet  you.  I  wanted  you  to 
lose  confidence  in  yourself,  I  always  want  you  to  lose 
confidence  in  yourself  that  you  may  turn  to  me !  Turn 
to  me  now,  Page  —  come  into  my  arms.  Whether 
you  mean  to  give  yourself  into  my  keeping  or  not, 
whether  you  are  going  away  or  whether  you  are  going 
to  stay,  whether  it  is  right  or  wrong,  come  into  my 
arms  for  this  once.  What  can  anything  matter?  I'm 
so  tired  of  loving  you  hopelessly;  so  hungry  for  one 
moment's  reward ! " 

To  her  surprise  he  put  out  his  arms  and  drew  her  to 
him  and  a  moment  later  she  felt  his  tears  on  her 
throat  and  his  slender  form  shaken  by  sobs. 

Page  did  not  know  how  long  they  remained  thus. 
She  was  feeling  that  Dave  convulsed  by  sobs,  his  eyes 
overflowing  with  tears,  was  a  terrible  thing.  A 
realization  of  his  love  for  her  and  the  suffering  it  was 
causing  him,  overcame  her.  A  great  pity  for  him,  for 
conditions,  for  Nina,  herself,  all  things  filled  her 
heart,  so  that  tears  gushed  into  her  own  eyes.  Then 
mingled  with  her  feeling  of  indefinite  sadness  and  help- 
less regret,  was  a  great  joy,  the  joy  of  a  strong  man's 
surrender  to  her  and  of  her  complete  possession.  She 
felt  like  folding  this  great  human  possession  in  her 
arms  and  keeping  it  there  against  her  heart  forever. 


no        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

His  lithe  body  was  warm  and  she  could  feel  his 
heart-beats  that  were  strong  as  the  blows  of  a  sledge 
hammer  bent  upon  the  destruction  of  his  frame. 
Finally  she  felt  herself  melting  under  his  fierce  em- 
brace that  had  become  fixed,  as  it  were,  for  all  eternity. 
Her  limbs  began  to  give  way  beneath  the  weight  of  a 
form  that  was  becoming  an  inert  mass  that  would  fall 
without  his  support.  Her  arms  lifted  involuntarily 
and  clasped  this  form  that  was  pressed  to  hers,  and 
Dave  returned  the  pressure  with  arms  that  were  like 
steel  and  hurt  her,  feeling  himself  in  an  opium  dream, 
soothed,  contented  at  last. 

Finally  he  raised  his  head  and  Page  barely  recog- 
nized the  face  she  caught  sight  of.  It  was  strange  and 
new,  illumined  and  pathetic,  yet  cruel. 

"  Page,"  he  whispered,  "  put  back  your  beautiful 
head,  give  me  your  sweet,  sweet  lips !  Oh !  you  will ! 
My  love !  My  love !  " 

A  moment  later  he  lifted  his  head,  laid  his  hands 
heavily  on  her  shoulders,  and  gazed  into  her  subdued 
eyes,  his  own  blazing  in  triumph. 

"  I  have  branded  you  with  that  kiss,"  he  cried ; 
"  my  mark  will  be  upon  you  forever  —  into  eternity 
itself  you  will  bear  it!  Speak  aloud  the  love  I 
have  just  felt;  tell  it  to  me — I  want  to  hear  you 
speak  the  words!  Do  you  love  me?  Do  you,  my 
darling?" 

"  Dave,"  she  cried,  freeing  herself  and  standing  apart 
from  him,  "  I  do  love  you,  but  even  in  the  moment 
of  this  confession  I  feel  a  stronger  call,  that  I  know, 
against  my  will,  will  bear  me  away  from  you!  It  is 
the  call  of  self !  Self  that  is  crying  out  for  freedom  — 
to  break  away  from  the  old  and  enter  in  upon  the  new ! 
Why  this  call  I  do  not  know !  But  it  is  as  insistent  in 


THE  CURB  BIT  in 

my  heart  as  the  never  ceasing  cry  of  the  birds  in  the 
woods  or  the  restless  movements  of  the  fish  in  the  sea. 
It  never  ceases,  never  gives  me  rest,  it  always  is  —  the 
I,  I,  I,  that  must  be  satisfied  before  I  part  with  it  —  be- 
fore it  is  sacrificed  even  to  you !  " 

"Then  go!" 

The  words  sprang  from  his  lips  like  a  pistol  shot. 
Page  felt  herself  start  as  though  she  had  been  struck  by 
them  and  then  her  eyes  fell  upon  his  face  that  seemed  to 
be  electrically  charged  and  blazing.  She  could  see  his 
eyes  shining  and  the  live  hair  glistening  and  on  his  com- 
pressed lips  an  expression  she  had  never  seen  before 
and  that  sent  terror  through  her. 

"  Go!  "  he  repeated,  "  and  send  Nina  to  me!  " 

"Nina!" 

"  Yes,  Nina !  I'm  going  to  ask  her  here,  now,  this 
very  moment,  to  be  my  wife !  She  may  not  consent  — 
I  believe  she  will !  I'm  better  than  teaching  school  — 
becoming  a  school  teacher!  I'm  going  to  take  her 
home  with  me  and  give  her  an  unconscious  task  to  per- 
form !  I'm  going  to  make  her  teach  me  to  forget  you ! 
I'm  going  to  make  her  youth,  her  eyes,  her  lips,  that 
lovely  wonderful  hair,  that  divine  form,  all  my  instru- 
ments to  work  against  you  —  to  oust  you  from  my 
heart  —  to  trample  every  memory  of  you  under  my 
feet!" 

"  Dave,  have  you  gone  mad  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  getting  my  senses !  I've  been  mad  all 
my  life  about  you!  Your  spirit,  your  soul,  all  the 
things  I  find  you  don't  possess,  and  I'm  sick  and  tired, 
worn  out  with  that  madness !  In  the  niche  where  my 
adoration  of  you  has  dwelt,  I  am  going  to  put  a 
beautiful  woman!  " 

"  Dave !    Dave ! "    and    the    words    were    a    gasp. 


ii2        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  Take  back  those  words !  You  didn't  mean  them ! 
Tell  me !  Did  you  mean  them  ?  " 

"No,  no,  a  thousand  times  no!  I'm  fighting  for 
you!  Come  into  my  arms,  put  your  head  on  my 
breast !  I  love  you !  I  love  you !  " 

She  fell  against  him  and  for  a  moment  the  earth 
became  a  liquid  sea  of  love  and  poured  into  them  all 
its  enchantment. 

In  their  ears  was  the  sound  of  a  banjo  from  a  dis- 
tant negro  cabin  and  the  old  familiar  echo  of  the 
whippoorwill. 

Page  drank  in  the  sweetness  of  these  old  familiar 
sounds  as  one  takes  a  last  view  of  things  while  the 
shore  recedes  from  sight. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

RESTING   ON    CONVENTIONS 

A  LITTLE  later  she  crept  up  the  steps  stealthily  and 
entered  the  room  that  she  occupied  with  Nina. 

Her  own  bed  had  been  turned  down  by  the  girl's  fair 
hands,  a  bowl  of  sweet  peas,  a  candle  and  some  matches 
placed  on  a  little  table  beside  it. 

Across  the  room,  under  a  window  with  the  moon- 
light flooding  her,  Nina  lay  asleep,  all  her  wealth  of 
tawny  hair  flung  over  the  pillow  and  one  snow  white 
arm  buried  in  the  meshes.  With  a  shoulder  partly  ex- 
posed the  girl  was  like  some  marvelous  recumbent 
statue  into  which  a  genius  had  poured  his  soul. 

Page  crept  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  gazed  upon  her 
with  that  solemn  wonder  that  one  feels  in  beholding  a 
masterpiece.  She  never  forgot  the  vision  and  long 
after  she  went  to  bed  the  thought  of  this  radiant 
luminous  creature  imprisoned  in  this  old  house  day 
after  day,  year  after  year,  weighed  upon  her. 

Half  undressed  she  took  her  seat  on  the  side  of  her 
bed,  still  under  the  spell  of  Dave's  kiss,  and  fell  to 
thinking.  For  a  while  she  experienced  a  languorous 
feeling  of  contentment,  a  slipping  away  of  all  conten- 
tion of  opposing  conditions,  and  all  the  charm  and  rest 
of  throwing  the  oars  of  her  life  into  Dave's  hands, 
drifting  as  he  willed  it.  She  was  as  one  resting  from 
battle.  But  soon  she  was  again  attacked  by  a  sense  of 
oppression  and,  rising  slowly,  she  stretched  out  her 

"3 


ii4        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

arms  to  the  mystery  of  the  beyond.  Then  with  a  half 
guilty  feeling  she  crept  into  bed. 

The  room  was  directly  over  the  library  and  after  a 
while  she  heard  Fielding  and  Dave  in  low,  earnest  con- 
versation. Later  they  passed  out  of  the  house  and 
sitting  up  and  looking  out  of  the  window,  she  saw  them 
walking  slowly  down  the  road,  two  tall  slender  forms, 
in  many  respects  alike  —  in  their  veins  the  blood  of 
cavaliers,  on  their  hearts  the  scars  of  rebellion,  with 
minds  alive  to  imperious  sentiment. 

Page  felt  all  this.  How  like  two  brothers  they  were, 
and  how  much  this  visit  of  Dave's  meant  to  Fielding! 
They  had  always,  since  little  lads,  who  went  fishing  and 
swimming  and  hunting  together,  loved  each  other 
dearer  than  brothers  and  their  friendship  had  never 
known  a  ripple  on  its  pure  surface.  Dave  had  his  arm 
over  Fielding's  shoulder  and  she  rejoiced  that  Fielding 
was  having  this  hour  that  meant  so  much  in  his  life. 
She  fell  asleep  thinking  of  them. 

"  You  are  looking  a  little  worn,  Fielding,"  Dave  was 
saying.  "  Nina  tells  me,  you  have  been  having  chills." 

"  I  have  been,  Dave," 

"  You  must  take  better  care  of  yourself.  You  must 
keep  out  of  the  sun  and  the  heat  of  the  day." 

"  How  often  have  you  said  that  to  me,  Dave,  but 
how  can  I  ?  I've  got  to  keep  in  the  sun,  or  the  rain,  or 
whatever  comes  along  for  the  day.  There  is  nothing 
for  me  but  work,"  he  smiled  sadly,  "  in  all  weathers. 
There  are,  besides  my  own,  eight  mouths  to  feed,  eight 
bodies  to  clothe  and  keep  warm,  all  dear  to  me  and  only 
my  hand  and  the  dull  earth." 

Fielding  had  always  been  remarkable,  just  as  had 
Dave,  for  his  clear  sweet  voice,  so  that  the  simplest 
words  fell  from  his  lips  like  a  poem. 


RESTING  ON  CONVENTIONS          115 

They  had  paused  in  their  walk  and  were  standing  in 
the  moonlit  road  beside  an  old  rail  fence. 

"  The  earth,  you  know,  Dave,"  he  continued,  "  is  like 
a  jealous  friend.  You  must  be  always  giving  it  your 
attention  or  it  will  develop  into  something  hideous. 
Weeds  spring  up  upon  it  like  evil  moods  of  the  selfish 
friend  and  it  takes  time  and  strength  to  live  down  what 
your  neglect  has  allowed  to  flourish.  So  to  the  man 
who  takes  up  with  the  earth  it's  always  work!  But," 
he  added  wearily,  "  what  does  it  matter,  after  all,  our 
individual  fatigues  and  woes?  When  you  come  to 
think  of  it  we  over-estimate  ourselves." 

Dave  did  not  reply  to  this.  He  loved  the  sound  of 
Fielding's  voice,  with  its  silver  cadence  of  sadness  and 
all  about  them,  like  an  accompaniment  to  it,  was  the 
wonderful  charm  of  the  summer  night. 

Presently,  however,  he  spoke.  "  I  still  say  that  you 
must  take  care  of  yourself,"  he  said  firmly. 

"  Oh !  I  am  all  right ;  it  isn't  easy  to  kill  a  sinewy 
son  of  toil  like  me  by  such  easy  methods  —  I  really  am 
all  right,  though  they  all  think  otherwise.  Haven't  I 
borne  everything  for  years,  until  they  took  from  me  the 
one  thing  —  my  inspiration  under  all  trials  ?  I  mean 
Emily,  of  course." 

He  laid  his  left  hand  on  Dave's  shoulder  and  as  Page 
was  never  to  forget  the  vision  of  Nina,  this  night,  Dave 
was  never  to  forget  his  friend's  face.  Pale,  the  soul- 
ful eyes  a  bit  haggard,  the  sunburned  cheeks  hollowed, 
the  bone  of  the  handsome,  strong  jaws  becoming  out- 
lined, and  an  expression  that  was  almost  tragic.  "  Oh ! 
my  God,  Dave,  when  I  think  of  her  father  giving  her 
over  to  that  brute  for  the  sake  of  his  own  physical 
comfort,  I  want  to  go  there  and  strangle  him  before  the 
deed  is  accomplished.  I  feel  murder  in  my  heart!  I 


ii6        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

saw  her  last  week,  she  was  giving  a  party  —  you  were 
there,  I  believe;  she  came  out  to  the  sidewalk  —  you 
knew  I  had  been  denied  the  house  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  heard  this  party  was  a  farewell  party,  and 
I  went  there  and  walked  up  and  down  the  sidewalk 
willing  her  to  consciousness  of  it!  And  she  came  to 
me,  Dave !  "  He  paused  and  then  went  on.  "  Several 
times  I  saw  her  at  the  window,  her  little  face  framed  in 
her  hands  looking  out.  At  last  she  saw  me  —  I  saw 
her  turn  quickly  as  though  to  run  and  knew  then  I  had 
only  to  wait  —  that  my  love  was  coming  to  me  to  say 
farewell.  It's  since  that  night  that  I  haven't  felt  well 
—  not  been  able  to  steady  myself.  You  know  how 
sweet  she  is!  Was  there  ever  anything  created  on 
earth  or  in  heaven  as  sweet  as  she  is?  And  they  are 
sacrificing  her,  Dave,  sacrificing  her,  and  I,  may  God 
help  me,  I  can't  save  her!  What  can  I  do?  I've  been 
wanting  to  see  you !  What  can  I  do,  Dave?  If  it  was 
Nina,  do  you  know  what  I  would  do  ?  Plunge  a  dag- 
ger in  her  heart  as  Virginius  plunged  a  dagger  into  his 
daughter's  heart !  " 

"  Fielding,"  Dave  cried,  looking  in  alarm  on  the  an- 
guished, distorted  countenance,  "  you  must  not  talk  so 
intemperately.  Hard  as  your  lot  is,  Emily's  is  harder, 
and  look  at  her  sustained  by  the  courage  of  a  martyr 
sacrificing  self  for  others !  Do  you  know  she  is  ready 
to  do  this  thing?  There  is  something  sublime  in  it. 
Take  courage  from  that!  And  you  are  not  the  only 
one.  Did  you  know  that  Page  is  thinking  of  going  to 
New  York?" 

"  I  have  heard  it,  yes,  Dave,  but  I  thought  —  I 
hoped  it  would  be  all  fixed  up  between  you  to-night." 

"  Page  is  impressionable,  she  was  under  my  influence 


RESTING  ON  CONVENTIONS          117 

to-night  and  the  spell  of  environment,  but  my  battle  is 
not  won  by  any  means.  It's  almost  as  hard  for  me  to 
stand  by  and  see  Page  go  to  New  York,  as  for  you  to 
see  Emily  enter  the  home  of  Robert  Hughes." 

"  Oh !  No !  "  Fielding  answered  with  a  shudder, 
and  after  a  pause.  "Oh!  This  restlessness,  Dave, 
that  is  beginning  to  gnaw  at  the  hearts  of  our  women ! 
Everywhere  I  go  I  am  confronted  by  it  —  women  at- 
tempting to  take  steps  independent  of  man.  Have  you 
heard  that  Nina  wants  to  go  away  and  teach  school  — 
become  a  school  teacher  in  a  public  school  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  told  me  to-day." 

"  Well,  she  never  shall !  My  God,  Dave,  she  never 
shall !  When  she  goes  from  my  arms,  from  my  care, 
from  this  old  home  that  she  is  the  light  of,  it  must  be 
to  a  better  love  and  a  better  home !  She  thinks,  God 
bless  her,  Dave,  that  if  she  gets  out  of  the  way,  leaves 
one  less  mouth  to  feed,  I  might  snatch  Emily  from 
them  and  bring  her  here !  God  bless  her,  Dave !  " 

He  put  his  hands  upon  Dave's  shoulders  and  fixed 
his  smoldering  eyes  in  his.  "  What  are  we  going  to 
do  about  it,  Dave,  this  restlessness  that  poverty  has  en- 
gendered in  our  women?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we  are  going  to  do  about  it, 
Fielding,"  Dave  cried,  "  we're  going  to  fight  it,  fight  it 
to  the  finish  with  the  last  drop  of  blood  in  our  veins  as 
we  fought  in  the  Civil  War  for  the  protection  of  the 
home  and  fireside.  We're  going  to  fight  to  keep  them 
in  their  places,  where  they  belong  —  because  that  is 
the  only  way  to  keep  them  pure  and  true  and  happy! 
Try  not,  at  any  rate,  for  the  present,  to  think  on  these 
things,  Fielding !  Do  you  know,"  he  added,  "  that  you 
are  in  a  very  excited  mental  condition  ?  You  must  get 
away  and  take  a  rest,  my  friend !  Put  a  hired  man  in 


n8        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

your  place  and  come  to  me  a  few  days.  Mother  said 
I  must  not  fail  to  exact  a  promise  of  you  before  I 
left.  Will  you?" 

"  I'll  think  about  it,  Dave." 

They  stood  still  quite  a  while  after  this,  each  silently 
filled  with  the  presence  of  the  other  and  holding  on  to 
every  moment  and  then,  still  silent,  they  strolled  slowly 
towards  the  house. 

The  next  morning  Dave  was  off  by  daylight  and  later 
in  the  day  the  other  guests  took  the  boat. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A    LIFE   AT   STAKE 

"  MARSE  DAVE  !     Marse  Dave !  " 

The  voice,  half  shriek,  half  wail,  rang  through  the 
bare  uncarpeted  hall  and  Dave  looked  up  quickly  from 
the  newspaper  he  was  reading.  He  knew  the  voice; 
it  was  Martha's  and  there  was  liquor  in  the  tones.  She 
strode  into  the  room  with  the  step  of  an  Indian  and 
stood  straight  and  wild-eyed  before  him. 

Her  usually  neat  appearance  had,  in  a  measure,  for- 
saken her;  her  dress  was  torn,  her  apron  rumpled,  and 
her  calico  slat-bonnet,  with  its  ornate  ruffled  cape,  hung 
limp  about  her  startled  terror-stricken  face. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Martha,"  asked  Dave  quietly,  "  what 
is  it?" 

For  answer  she  flung  herself  emotional  and  half  in- 
toxicated at  his  feet,  crying  out  again :  "  Marse  Dave ! 
Marse  Dave !  " 

"  Well,  Aunt  Martha,"  he  repeated,  with  a  tinge  of 
impatience  this  time,  "  what  is  it  —  what's  the 
trouble?" 

"  It's  Sam,  Marse  Dave,"  exclaimed  the  poor  de- 
mented creature. 

Dave  frowned.  "  He's  been  up  to  more  mischief  ?  " 
he  asked  sternly. 

Martha  knelt  before  him  and  broke  forth:  "  Naw, 
naw,  Marse  Dave,  befo'  de  livin'  Gaud  he  ain't  done 
nothin'  dis  time  —  he  wrongfully  'cused!  " 

"  Of  what?  "  demanded  Dave  sharply. 

119 


120       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  He  broke  out  de  jail,"  the  poor  soul  went  on,  rock- 
ing her  body  backwards  and  forwards  as  she  talked; 
"  he  stole  his  way  to  de  woods  ter  hide  fur  fear  of  bein' 
kotched,  en  — "  she  broke  off  and  commenced  wring- 
ing her  hands. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Martha,  go  on,"  said  Dave  command- 
ingly. 

"  Er  week  ago  dey  found  a  white  gal  in  de  woods 
'long  whar  he  had  been,  some  devil  done  choked  her  ter 
dqaf  and  kase  Sam  escaped  de  jail  en  somebody  seen 
him  in  de  woods  dat  day,  dey  done  put  it  on  him  en  dey 
houndin'  him  ter  deaf !  En  it  'tain't  so,  Marse  Dave,  it 
'tain't  so!" 

Her  tears  gushed  forth  and  streamed  down  her 
lean  cheeks  and  her  body  heaved. 

Dave's  countenance  during  this  recital  had  become 
severe.  His  jaws  squared  and  his  eyes  grew  dark. 
Suddenly  he  leaned  forward  and  caught  her  by  the 
shoulders,  and,  with  a  powerful  grip,  steadied  her  rock- 
ing body.  "  Aunt  Martha,"  he  asked,  looking  sternly 
into  the  tear-blurred,  bloodshot  eyes,  "  did  Sam  do 
this  thing?" 

She  freed  herself,  and  the  dim  eyes  flashed  as  she 
threw  up  both  arms.  "  Befo'  de  livin'  Gaud,  Marse 
Dave,  he  didn't!  Sam  er  thief,  only  Gaud  knows  how 
dat  is,  Sam  er  thief,  but  he  wouldn't  hurt  de  hair  of 
no  white  chile  dat  breathe  de  breaf  of  life!  Ain't 
Marse  Ran,  en  Miss  Helen  done  raised  him  ?  "  She 
looked  almost  triumphantly  for  a  moment  into  his 
searching  eyes  and  then  went  on :  "  Times  is  hard  en 
he  done  strayed,  but  he  ain't  never  blackened  his  soul 
like  dat,  en  I  knows  it !  " 

Dave  had  caught  the  flash  of  truth  and  the  trium- 
phant look  born  of  the  mother's  pride  and  sincerity, 


A  LIFE  AT  STAKE  121 

and  after  holding  her  gaze  for  an  instant,  he  exclaimed, 
excitedly,  "  Aunt  Martha,  I  believe  you !  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  breathless  pause  while  the 
worshipful  eyes  of  the  old  slave  still  looked  into  the 
trusting  ones  of  the  young  man,  and  then  she  caught  his 
hands. 

"  Gaud  bless  you,  Marse  Dave,  Gaud  bless  you ;  I 
know'd  you'd  believe  ole  Martha  what  your  angel 
grandma  taught  never  ter  tell  er  lie !  I  knowed  you'd 
b'lieve  me !  But  dat  ain't  all,  Marse  Dave,  I  wants  you 
ter  go  wid  me  ter  help  me  save  my  boy!  Dey  still 
huntin'  him  in  de  woods  round  ole  Martin  Jorden's 
plantation.  But  Sam  done  worked  dar  harvest  time, 
ever  since  he  knowed  how  ter  talk,  en  knowed  every 
inch  er  ground  en  every  tree  on  de  place,  en  every  hid- 
in'  hole,  so  he  'scaped  'em,  en  night  before  larst  at  free 
o'clock  in  de  mornin'  he  knock  on  de  window  pane.  I 
knowed  'twas  him  afore  I  heard  him  callin'  low  like, 
'  mother,  mother,'  en  I  knowed  thar  was  trouble.  I 
got  up  en  open  de  do'  soft,  en  he  come  in  an'  fell  down 
on  de  flo'  like  er  dog  tired  out  from  huntin'.  Dey'd 
been  houndin'  him  four  nights  en  days,  en  he  ain't  never 
had  er  mouthful  ter  eat,"  a  child-like  look  crossed  her 
features,  "  but  my  boy  got  home,  my  boy  got  home  ter 
me!" 

She  buried  her  face  sobbing,  and  Dave  allowed  her 
a  moment  to  compose  herself. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked  finally,  his  voice  cutting  the  still- 
ness. 

Martha  changed  her  kneeling  position  to  a  seat  on 
the  floor  at  his  feet. 

"  He  was  well-nigh  starved,"  she  exclaimed,  "  his 
clothes  was  harf  torn  off'n  him,  en  he  done  fall  off 
twell  I  hardly  knowed  him.  Sam's  so  big,  Marse 


122        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Dave,"  she  said  wistfully,  "  en  seein'  his  great  bones 
most  skeered  me.  I  got  him  sumfin  to  eat,  en  when  he 
done  et  it,  all  de  time  lookin'  round  en  listenin',  he  tole 
me  how  I  got  ter  hide  him.  So  I  put  him  down  in  de 
cellar,  wid  er  mattress  en  er  quilt,  en  fur  two  days  I 
kyard  his  victuals  ter  him,  but  now  I  feared,  kase  last 
night  ole  Catlin  Jefferson  say  dey  sure  guine  git  track 
uv  him,  en  when  dey  do,  dey  guine  come  dar  en  take 
him  out  en  tear  him  ter  pieces.  I  done  shet  up  de 
house  same  ez  nobody  dar,  en  I  wants  you  ter  go  back 
wid  me,  Marse  Dave,  and  guard  de  do' !  " 

Her  brown  face  grew  ashen  and  her  voice  was  al- 
most a  shriek  as  she  continued :  "  Lord,  Gaud,  Marse 
Dave,  let'm  put  him  in  prison,  let'm  hang  him  if  dey 
got  ter,  but  don't  let'm  tear  my  boy  ter  pieces !  "  she 
clasped  her  hardened  hands  and  stared  up  at  him.  "  I 
come  fur  you  ter  go  wid  me  en  stand  guard  over  de 
house  en  keep'm  back.  'Tain't  nobody  but  you  ken 
save  him ! " 

"Aunt  Martha,  stand  up!" 

She  dragged  herself  to  her  feet  at  his  command,  and, 
still  a  little  dazed  by  drink,  looked  squarely  at  him. 

Dave  lifted  his  right  hand. 

"  Do  you  swear  by  the  living  God  and  my  grand- 
mother, who  was  as  a  mother  to  you,  that  you  believe 
Sam  innocent  of  this  crime?" 

With  a  sublime  look  upon  her  face  she,  one  of  the 
martyred  ones  of  her  time,  lifted  up  her  two  hands  and 
took  her  oath. 

"  I  does,  Marse  Dave,"  she  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "  I 
swear  befo'  de  livin'  Gaud  en  Mistiss  I  b'lieve  my  boy 
ain't  done  dis  thing!  " 

"  Then  I'll  go  with  you,  Aunt  Martha,"  said  Dave, 


A  LIFE  AT  STAKE  123 

his  voice  choked  by  emotion,  his  eyes  gleaming  with 
grim  determination,  "  and  they  will  take  Sam  over 
my  dead  body !  " 

He  took  up  his  slouch  hat  that  lay  on  the  table,  and 
the  two  wandered  forth  together. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  FREEDMAN'S  INHERITANCE 

NOT  a  word  passed  between  them  as  they  strode 
rapidly  through  the  sunny  streets,  each  filled  with  anx- 
ious thoughts. 

The  day  was  perfect  but  momentarily  growing  hot- 
ter. Already  the  sun  began  to  burn  through  one's 
clothing. 

As  was  Dave's  habit,  he  took  off  his  hat  and  swung 
it  in  his  hand  as  he  walked  along,  leaving  exposed  the 
classic  head,  with  its  thick,  glistening  hair.  One  saw 
in  this  glaring  daylight  the  beauty  and  strength  of  the 
face,  with  its  touch  of  sadness  that  lent  to  it  a  noble 
pathos.  It  was  the  sadness  peculiar  to  the  Southern 
countenance  of  that  day;  a  remnant  of  the  sadness  that 
had  swept  like  a  cloud  over  thousands  of  heroic  souls 
on  the  day  of  Lee's  surrender  and  left  its  impression. 

The  hour  was  soon  after  breakfast,  and  the  inhabi- 
tants, idle  by  nature,  were  not  yet  settled  down  to  the 
tasks  of  the  day.  The  streets  and  front  yards  were 
gay.  Pretty  women  in  sunbonnets,  some  with  an  old 
negro  at  their  heels,  were  digging  and  looking  after 
flowers  in  the  yards ;  some  were  cutting  them.  Young 
girls  were  in  groups ;  some  reading  aloud  to  each  other, 
having  assumed  affectionate  positions ;  some  idle,  given 
up  to  that  indolent  repose  so  natural  to  them;  some 
were  embroidering  and  others  were  working  in  human 
hair,  making  watch-chains,  bracelets,  and  brooches, 
which  were  the  fashion  of  the  day.  Groups  of  chil- 

124 


THE  FREEDMAN'S  INHERITANCE     125 

dren  were  busy  about  the  gates  or  on  the  sidewalks  with 
their  "  memory  strings,"  which  consisted  of  a  collec- 
tion of  buttons  of  various  colors  and  descriptions,  each 
one  attempting  to  have  the  longest  string,  and  who- 
ever had  the  most  Confederate  buttons  had  the  most 
valuable.  Several  ran  up  to  beg  a  button.  He  ab- 
sently touched  their  sunny  heads  or  smiled  at  them 
without  replying,  and  went  on. 

The  walk  was  quite  a  long  one,  and  when  they 
reached  the  narrow  quarter  of  the  city  where  old  Mar- 
tha had  her  little  shanty  of  a  home,  they  found  it 
swarmed  with  a  motley  crowd  of  negroes. 

Martha's  terror  returned.  She  would  have  shrieked 
but  Dave  grasped  her  by  the  arm,  commanded  silence, 
and  they  pushed  on  through  the  crowd,  which  increased 
each  moment. 

Men,  women,  and  children  were  issuing  from  their 
wretched  abodes  from  all  quarters.  There  must  have 
been  already  assembled  some  hundreds,  and  they  kept 
increasing  in  numbers,  as  though,  beneath  the  rear  of 
the  house,  the  earth  had  opened  to  supply  them.  They 
were  hatless,  and  the  younger  ones,  male  and  female, 
for  the  better  part,  shoeless.  Their  costumes  were 
grotesque;  some  almost  in  rags  were,  like  old  Martha, 
neat.  These  were  the  older  ones,  but  many,  the  ma- 
jority, were  dirty,  as  though  their  wretched  clothing 
had  been  worn  night  and  day  for  weeks.  Shining 
black  skins  shone  through  the  rents  in  their  attire. 
Girls  had  on  waists  and  skirts  that  parted  at  the  waist- 
line, showing  the  flesh;  little  urchins  held  up  their 
ragged  trousers  with  bits  of  wood  for  buttons,  and 
many  a  bare  shoulder  protruded  from  coarse  yellow 
cotton  shirts.  Women  held  their  babies  to  their  naked 
breasts,  unabashed,  and  allowed  the  children  that  could 


126        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

walk,  and  who  were  scarcely  clothed  at  all,  to  cling  to 
their  skirts.  Cur  dogs  ran  in  and  out  of  the  crowd  or 
sat  on  the  small  porches  looking  astonished. 

The  eyes  of  this  motley  band  of  freed  half-savages 
expressed  little.  They  stared  vacantly  or  rolled  about 
from  side  to  side  sullenly.  Their  thick  lips  were  parted 
expectantly,  and  Dave  seemed  to  feel  the  half -con- 
quered passions  of  these  partly  civilized  creatures  ready 
to  burst  forth.  All  the  bloodshed  that  had  brought 
about  the  conditions  that  faced  him  pressed  upon  him 
and  gripped  at  his  heart.  For  one  moment  his  mind 
traveled  to  the  sunny  past,  but  a  great  loneliness  at- 
tacked him  as  of  the  world  itself  lost  and  he  quickly 
returned  to  the  present,  the  present  with  its  horrors, 
its  crimes,  its  poverty,  its  demoralization,  its  lost  souls, 
its  restless  women. 

All  the  noble  aspirations  that  patient  forbearing  men 
had  expended  on  these  black  beings,  all  the  thoughts 
of  virtuous,  gentle  women,  many  of  whom  had  given 
up  their  lives  to  making  God-fearing  Christians  of  them 
had,  as  it  were,  vanished  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven, 
and  the  evil  that  had  been  eliminated  by  care  and  faith- 
ful watching  seemed  now  gathered  in  a  great  cloud 
ready  to  burst  and  shower  down  what  it  had  accumu- 
lated that  it  might  be  reincarnated. 

He  felt  ready  for  miracles  of  horror.  If  flames  had 
burst  through  the  earth,  burning  the  feet  and  igniting 
the  clothing  of  this  forsaken  people,  it  would  not  have 
surprised  him. 

A  great  pity  filled  his  heart  for  them,  these  poor 
slaves,  who  had  been  cared  for  with  affection,  and  who 
had  been  cruelly  ignored.  He  recognized  what  a  weary 
thing  is  the  progress  of  humanity  under  the  best  con- 
ditions —  what  a  hopeless  thing  under  conditions  like 


THE  FREEDMAN'S  INHERITANCE 

these.  He  saw  no  hope  on  the  faces  about  him,  and 
all  soul  progress  seemed  suspended.  Each  countenance 
betrayed  ignorance  and  rank  lust.  Pride  had  become 
practically  extinguished  in  these  abandoned  beings,  and 
he  knew  that  without  pride  in  himself  man  must  fall. 
The  awful  pathos  of  it  gripped  him.  He  longed  to 
be  the  captain  of  these  poor  creatures,  to  gather  them 
all,  the  ragged,  the  hungry,  the  brutal,  the  misdirected, 
the  evil  as  well  as  the  good,  into  an  army  and  lead  them 
forth  from  their  unjust  punishment  and  the  darkness 
of  their  awful  present.  Oh !  that  he  could  sweep  away 
their  ignorance,  efface  their  want,  loose  the  chains  of 
error  and  superstition  that  bound  them! 

He  grew  older  and  almost  majestic  as  these  imagina- 
tive thoughts  traveled  through  his  brain. 

Many  recognized  him  and  extended  greetings  such 
as  "  Dar  Marse  Dave,"  "  Marse  Dave  done  come,"  or 
"Howdy,  Marster?" 

He  said  nothing  in  return,  as  he  had  said  nothing 
to  the  little  children  drawn  to  him  as  he  passed 
through  the  streets.  But  a  great  love  was  in  his 
heart  for  them.  Out  of  his  little  he  had  never  re- 
fused help  to  any  black  man  or  woman  who  had 
ever  come  to  him  in  trouble;  he  was  here  to  help 
one  now,  and  the  thought  swept  joy  through  his  veins. 
Suddenly  he  lost  sight  of  the  depravity  that  hunger 
and  fear  and  desperate  times  had  left  upon  these  faces ; 
he  did  not  even  see  the  filth  and  squalor  they  existed 
in ;  he  forgot  the  evil  passions  that  might  so  easily  be 
aroused.  To  him  they  were  the  poor  "  niggers  "  whom 
the  South  was  unable  to  do  for  any  longer.  For  one 
instant  a  tear  flashed  in  the  fine  eye,  but  the  next  the 
head  was  lifted  higher,  a  strong  control  was  put  upon 
the  features  and  the  step  became  firmer.  A  stranger 


128        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

arriving  on  the  scene  might  have  taken  him  for  a  new 
prophet. 

Martha,  whom  the  excitement  and  long  walk  had 
partly  sobered,  was  ecstatic.  She  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten her  son's  danger  in  the  knowledge  that  he  had 
a  protector.  Pride  was  in  her  step,  adoration  in  her 
half-lifted  face  as  she  kept  close  by  his  side  or  followed 
at  his  heels. 

Suddenly  a  sharp  voice  called  out,  "  Dey  comin' !  " 
But  no  one  took  it  up,  and  for  a  while  the  suppressed 
emotions  of  the  excited  mob  continued. 

At  last,  however,  as  though  their  smoldering  feel- 
ings had  begun  to  stifle  them,  there  were  sounds  of 
mutterings  and  sudden  exclamations.  One  old  woman, 
half  in  her  dotage,  dragged  herself  up  on  one  of  the 
higher  porches  and  cried  out  as  though  the  matter  had 
been  pondered  and  finally  understood,  "  Who  comin'  ? 
Dat  what  I  ax  —  who  comin'  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  a  cracked  wail,  and  all  eyes  turned 
upon  her.  Her  throat  and  lean  chest  were  bare,  and 
her  old  wrinkled  face,  with  its  blurred  eyes  and  tan- 
gled silvery  hair,  had  the  look  of  a  maniac.  She  had 
on  a  ragged  calico  dress  and  a  more  ragged  apron  cov- 
ered the  front  of  it.  The  skirt  of  the  dress  was  short 
and  showed  her  stockingless  feet  in  a  pair  of  man's 
shoes.  Her  eyes  began  to  give  out  a  dull  flame,  and 
there  was  something  heroic  in  her  wild,  fearless  atti- 
tude. 

"What  de  Bible  say?"  she  cried  out.  "Don't  it 
say  dat  de  sun  shall  shine  on  de  black  ez  well  ez  de 
white?" 

"  Praise  de  Lord !  "  shouted  back  an  enormous  black 
woman,  pushing  her  way  through  the  crowd  and  throw- 
ing up  her  arms. 


THE  FREEDMAN'S  INHERITANCE     129 

"  Dat  right,  sister  Susan,"  called  an  aged  man,  "  en 
He  right  heah  in  de  midst.  He  stand  by  de  thief  en 
de  soul  in  trouble  ez  well  ez  dem  dat  ridin'  high !  " 

"  Heah  now,"  shouted  the  giantess,  "  heah  now ! 
Uncle  Martin  done  spoke !  " 

"  Dey  comin',  dough,"  shouted  an  urchin,  "  en  dey 
guine  tear  Sam  Washington  limb  from  limb  en  burn'm 
er-live!" 

The  mob  again  responded,  and  old  'Brosia,  growing 
more  excited,  repeated  in  a  loud  voice :  "  Dey  comin', 
is  dey?  Who  comin'  ?  Dat  what  I  ax?  En  how 
dey  comin'  ?  Wid  dey  knives  en  pistols  en  dey  light- 
wood  knots,  is  dey?  Dey  talkin'  moughty  proud  'bout 
tearin'  niggers  ter  pieces  en  burn'm  er-live !  "  She 
raised  aloft  her  bony  fist  and  shook  it.  "  Let'm  come; 
dey  fin'  out  sumfin  too !  " 

"  Dat  dey  will,  Aunt  'Brosia,  dey  fine  out  sumfin 
moughty  quick,  too !  "  called  back  old  Martin. 

She  laughed  with  diabolical  delight  at  the  response 
to  her  words.  "  Sposen,"  she  shouted  in  a  still  higher 
key,  "  dat  when  dey  gets  heah  evy  nigger  in  dis  gang 
fling  er  flatiron  at  de  heads,  what  den  ?  " 

"  Den  dey  see  sumfin !  "  Susan  returned,  and  a 
burst  of  guffaw  laughter  followed  from  the  crowd. 

She  now  raised  both  bony  arms.  "  I  don  tole  you 
what  de  Bible  say !  " 

The  mob  responded  with  grunts  and  amens,  and 
without  another  word  and  with  a  half-absent  look  in 
her  colorless  eyes,  she  descended  as  though  nothing  had 
happened,  and  took  her  stand  with  the  rest. 

During  this  outburst  Dave  said  nothing.  He  be- 
gan to  feel  penetrating  him  the  ignorance  and  evil 
feelings  of  these  dark-skinned  beings  about  him.  The 
old  woman  nearing  her  hundredth  year  was  as  logical 


130       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

a  mouthpiece  as  existed  in  their  midst.  He  walked 
on  through  the  crowd  that  grew  denser  each  moment, 
and  finally  reached  Martha's  home.  Mounting  the  few 
steps  he  took  his  stand  on  the  small  porch,  with  his 
back  to  the  door  he  had  come  to  guard. 

It  was  now  nearly  noon,  and  the  sun  beat  down  hot- 
ter than  ever.  It  had  not  rained  for  days,  and  the 
small  trees  above  the  heads  of  the  people  were  dust- 
covered  and  drooping.  In  the  many  yards  which  pre- 
sented themselves  to  his  gaze  sun-flowers,  tiger-lilies, 
and  many  coarse  but  gorgeous  plants  bloomed  trium- 
phantly. And  there  were  flowers  interspersed,  ver- 
benas that  trailed  upon  the  ground,  cabbage  roses  of 
thick  clumsiness,  others  of  violent  scarlet  and  a  few 
white  ones  that  looked  sick  and  pallid  and  served  to 
bring  out  the  vividness  of  the  rest. 

Lines  of  laundry  work,  done  for  the  whites,  hung 
motionless  in  the  rear  or  at  the  sides  of  the  houses  and 
upon  the  palings  were  patched  quilts  and  red  flannel 
and  other  garments,  all  giving  a  dazzling,  barbaric 
effect  to  the  scene.  And  not  a  cloud  was  in  the  sky, 
which  was  clear  and  blue  as  a  sapphire. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

LYNCH    LAW 

ALL  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs 
and  six  horsemen,  unmindful  of  life  or  death,  dashed 
through  the  mob,  and,  throwing  their  horses  on  their 
haunches,  reined  up  before  Aunt  Martha's  home. 

What  riders  they  were  and  what  a  handsome,  daring 
set,  young  and  dashing;  just  the  same  sort  of  gallant 
reckless  youths  that  twenty  years  ago  had  plunged 
madly  into  battle,  and  of  whom  nothing  was  now  left 
but  a  turfed  mound,  and  the  spirit  that  lived  in  such 
as  these! 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Dave  Lee?  " 

"  Standing  guard  over  Sam  Washington,"  Dave 
thundered  back,  his  voice  charged  with  excitement. 
He  had  taken  off  his  coat,  and  was  standing  in  front 
of  the  frail  door,  his  arms  outstretched  and  fastened 
against  it  as  though  nailed. 

"  Get  out  of  the  way,  Dave;  we're  going  to  have  that 
nigger!" 

"  Not  unless  he  is  the  right  nigger,  boys ;  you've  got 
to  be  sure  of  that  first !  " 

"  We  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  Dave,  but  we  tell  you 
once  more  to  get  away  from  that  door  —  get  out  of 
the  way.  We  want  that  nigger,  and  we  are  going  to 
have  him! " 

"  Not  unless  he  is  the  right  nigger,"  repeated  Dave. 
"  How  do  you  know  he  is  the  man  you  want  ?  You 
don't  know  it,  and  as  long  as  you  don't,  he  is  under  my 


132        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

protection,  and  the  only  way  you  can  lay  hands  on  him 
is  over  my  dead  body !  " 

"  Dar  now !  "  shouted  Uncle  Martin,  and  the  negroes 
broke  into  cheers. 

"  Deliver  up  that  nigger,  Dave ;  we  give  you  one 
more  chance,"  and  a  pistol  came  in  sight  from  a  hip 
pocket. 

For  an  instant  the  pallor  of  death  spread  over  Dave's 
face,  but  except  for  that  he  might  have  been  a  piece 
of  marble.  Suddenly  his  eyes  flashed  and  he  sprang 
forward.  "  Put  up  that  pistol,  Kennon  Fleming! 
You're  not  facing  an  enemy,  boys,"  he  cried,  "  and  be- 
fore you  commit  murder  listen  to  me!  You've  been 
on  this  hunt  for  days  and  nights,  you're  tired  out, 
probably  hungry.  Some  of  you  have  been  drinking 
and  are  half  drunk.  Your  nerves  are  dulled.  I  see 
it  in  your  faces.  You  are  ready  to  even  commit  a 
crime  to  be  through  with  this  job,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
stand  by  and  let  you  do  it!  If  I  thought  Sam  Wash- 
ington was  your  man,  how  long  do  you  think  it  would 
take  me  to  hand  him  over  to  you  ?  You  all  know  me, 
and  you  know  just  how  long!  Sam  Washington  may 
be  guilty,  I'm  not  prepared  to  swear  he  isn't,  but  I  be- 
lieve he  is  innocent,  and  as  long  as  I  do,  he  is  my  pris- 
oner so  long  as  I  can  hold  him,  and  not  yours !  I  know 
things  look  black  for  Sam!  I  know  he  is  a  thief;  I 
know  he  broke  out  of  jail ;  I  know  he  was  seen  in  the 
neighborhood  of  this  crime  you're  attempting  to 
avenge,  but  I  don't  believe  he  had  any  more  to  do  with 
that  crime  than  you  or  me!  I'm  not  afraid  of  you! 
There  isn't  a  man  among  you  who  will  dare  lay  hands 
on  me  or  Sam  Washington  either!  Why?  Because 
you  don't  know  he  is  your  man !  " 

Dave's  electrified  appearance  and  the  effect  of  his 


LYNCH  LAW  133 

oratory  were  magical.  The  negroes  stared  aghast  and 
the  men  he  was  appealing  to  weakened.  Suddenly 
they  seemed  to  realize  that  it  was  David  Lee  whom 
they  were  facing,  and  not  an  opposing  force. 

"  You  shoulder  the  responsibility,  Dave,"  Fleming 
cried  out,  lowering  his  pistol ;  "  it's  on  you,  remem- 
ber?" 

"  Certainly !  "  Dave  cried. 

"  Then  we  had  as  well  continue  our  search  elsewhere, 
boys.  It's  Dave's  nigger,  anyway.  He's  got  the  right 
to  stand  by  him  and  see  that  he  gets  fair  play !  Come 
on!" 

Plunging  their  spurs  into  their  horses,  they  turned 
and  dashed  away  through  the  crowd,  scattering  them 
helter-skelter. 

All  the  while  this  scene  had  been  enacted  old  Martha 
was  standing  by  the  little  pillar  to  the  porch,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  Dave  as  upon  an  apparition.  Suddenly  she 
threw  up  her  arms.  Fearing  an  hysterical  scene,  Dave 
turned  to  her,  a  sharp  command  in  his  voice. 

"  Aunt  Martha,  go  and  tell  Sam  to  come  up  here. 
We've  got  to  turn  him  over  to  these  two  gentlemen." 
He  motioned  to  two  policemen  who  had  arrived  upon 
the  scene. 

Giving  one  look  in  his  face  to  reassure  herself,  Mar- 
tha took  a  key  from  her  pocket,  opened  the  frail  door 
and  entered  the  house. 

When  she  finally  led  Sam  forth,  exclamations  and 
ejaculations  broke  forth  anew  from  the  mob,  such  as 
"  Umph !  "  "  Dar  now !  "  "  Praise  de  Lord !  " 

Martha  stood  in  silence  beside  her  son,  her  face, 
tranquillized  by  love  and  gratitude,  shining  upon  them 
all  with  a  radiance  that  was  hardly  of  the  world.  In 
her  look  was  pride,  pride  in  this  great  black  thief  who 


134       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

was  her  son,  and  who  in  spite  of  the  fact  of  his  rags, 
might  easily  be  imagined  as  an  expatriated  African 
Prince. 

Towering  a  full  head  above  his  fellows,  with  clean, 
straight  limbs  and  a  body  pliant  and  graceful  as  a 
deer's,  he  stood  dazed,  docile  and  helpless,  still  terrified, 
but  also  with  a  look  of  relief  on  his  tortured  coun- 
tenance. For  some  moments  not  a  word  was  spoken, 
and  the  poor  hounded,  half -starved  creature  looked 
about  him  absently  till  his  eyes  rested  in  Dave's.  Then 
tears  gathered  and  rolled  in  broad  streams  down  the 
shiny  black  cheeks.  "  Thankee,  Marse  Dave,"  he  said. 

Dave  went  up  to  him  and  laid  one  hand  kindly  upon 
his  shoulder.  "  Sam,"  he  said  gently,  "  I've  got  to 
send  you  back  to  prison ;  when  you  come  out,  try  to  be 
a  good  man.  Gentlemen,"  he  then  added  quietly  to  the 
two  officers,  "  take  your  prisoner." 

As  the  handcuffs  were  clasped  upon  Sam's  wrists 
and  they  led  him  away,  Page,  who  had  been  hidden  be- 
hind the  giant  form  of  the  negress  Helen,  leaped  to 
the  porch  to  Dave's  side. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HANDS    ON    THE   BIBLE 

FOR  one  moment  Dave  stared  at  her  dumb-struck, 
and  then  he  almost  swung  her  into  the  open  door. 
Martha  followed  them  quickly,  closed  it  and  stood, 
also  in  amazement,  looking  on. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Page?  "  demanded  Dave, 
breathlessly. 

"  I  was  coming  with  this  bundle  —  it's  sewing  for 
Aunt  Martha  —  I  often  come  to  bring  her  work. 
When  I  got  here  I  saw  the  crowd  and  thought  there 
was  a  fire  —  I  heard  those  men  arriving  on  horseback 
and  thought  at  first  it  was  the  fire-engines.  Then  they 
rushed  past  me,  and  I  recognized  them  and  saw  a  look 
on  their  faces  that  terrified  me.  I  saw  Uncle  Martin 
and  asked  him  what  the  trouble  was,  and  he  told  me 
that  you  were  here  guarding  Sam,  and  that  your  life 
was  in  danger!  I  ran,  pushing  everybody  out  of  my 
way!  I  heard  your  voice  speaking  to  the  men  and  I 
stopped,  out  of  sight  of  you,  to  listen!  I  saw  Kennon 
Fleming  take  out  his  pistol,  and  I  thought  I  was  going 
to  faint!  For  a  moment  I  did  lose  consciousness,  I 
believe,  for  I  found  old  Helen  was  holding  me  up.  I 
got  behind  her  then  —  told  her  to  hide  me  —  but  I 
could  see  you!  All  the  while  you  were  speaking  my 
eyes  were  on  your  face!  Dave!  Dave!  They  might 
have  killed  you !  " 

"  You  might  have  been  killed  yourself !  "  Dave  cried. 

"  Suppose  there  had  been  a  riot  here !  You  should 

i3S 


136        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

have  gone  back  when  you  saw  the  crowd !  You  might 
have  been  trampled  to  death  under  the  feet  of  horses ! 
God  only  knows  what  might  not  have  happened ! " 

"  Naw,  naw,"  old  Martha  cried,  springing  forward 
excitedly.  Her  face  was  shining  in  rapture,  and  she 
clapped  her  hands.  "  Naw,  naw,  Gaud  was  here,  en 
He  wan't  guine  to  let  nothin'  happen!  Wan't  you 
savin'  Sam?  I'm  glad  de  chile  happened  here;  glad 
she  come;  glad  she  seen  you  ez  I  did,  and  heard  yo' 
words!  Dey  been  tellin'  me,  Miss  Page  standin'  out 
'gainst  yo'  love !  She  kyarnt  do  dat  no  more  now  since 
she  done  see  you  ez  er  man !  She  got  ter  love  you  now 
en  give  herself  in  yo'  hands.  Ain't  you,  honey? 
Lord,  Lord,  Miss  Page,  take  his  love,  chile,  take  et 
now,  right  here  from  to-day!  'Tain't  nothin'  I  ken 
do  but  fall  down  on  my  knees  to  him !  "  She  did  so  as 
she  spoke.  "  All  I  ken  do  is  ter  bless  his  name ;  but  you 
ken  make  him  happy  all  his  days !  " 

She  sprang  up  and  raised  her  arms,  her  face  still 
shining  in  joy  and  adoration !  "  Take  him,  honey, 
yes,  yes,  let  yo'  heart  fly  out  right  into  his'n !  Ain't  he 
grand,  ain't  he  noble  looking,  just  like  old  Marse,  jess 
like  old  Marse!  En  he  loves  you  jess  like  old  Marse 
loved  Mistiss.  Everything  she  done  was  right ;  every- 
thing she  say  was  Gospel;  every  time  she  come  whar 
he  was  he  look  up  en  de  sun  come  into  his  eyes !  When 
he  was  dyin'  and  she  went  up  to  de  bed,  he  look  up  at 
her  and  dat  same  light  was  shining!  Heah,  honey, 
heah !  "  She  turned  and  hunting  in  a  little  cupboard 
in  the  corner,  she  brought  forth  an  old  Bible. 

"  This  heah  de  Bible  she  give  me !  Put  both  your 
hands  on  it  and  be  jined  in  love!  'Tain't  nothin'  else 
for  you,  Miss  Page,  but  to  take  his  love !  " 

She  stretched  forth  the  Bible. 


HANDS  ON  THE  BIBLE  137 

Dave,  with  a  flash  of  tears  in  his  eyes,  laid  his  hand 
upon  it. 

"  Page!  "  he  breathed  in  an  awe-struck  voice.  She 
paused,  advanced,  laid  her  hand  beside  his,  and  their 
eyes  met. 

Old  Martha,  overcome  by  the  scene  and  all  she  had 
been  through,  let  go  her  hold  on  the  Bible,  staggered 
over  to  a  little  rush-bottomed  chair,  dropped  in  it  and 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  sobbing. 

A  moment  later,  with  her  free  hand,  Page  made  a 
sign  to  Dave  to  leave. 

He  did  so,  and  she  sprang  to  the  old  woman  and 
knelt  down  before  her.  "  Look  up,  Aunt  Martha," 
she  said,  "  I  am  with  you !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A   SACRIFICE   REVEALED 

EXCEPT  for  some  children  and  a  few  groups  of  men, 
who  had  remained  to  talk  over  the  event  of  the  day, 
Dave  found  the  little  street,  when  he  stepped  from 
Aunt  Martha's  porch,  deserted.  Peace  had  been  re- 
stored, and  all  had  turned  to  the  routine  of  daily  life. 
Smoke  had  begun  to  ascend  from  the  low,  dilapidated 
chimneys,  the  sound  of  the  washtub  and  the  well- 
bucket  could  be  heard,  and  the  aroma  of  boiling  cab- 
bage, frying  bacon  and  baking  corn  bread  was  in  the 
air. 

Dave  had  many  encounters  and  conversations  when 
he  reached  the  streets.  He  missed  his  dinner,  and 
when  he  finally  arrived  home,  darkness  was  coming  on. 
He  was  greeted  upon  opening  the  front  door  with  a 
faint  sweet  odor  of  pipe-smoke,  and,  as  Uncle  Ran 
never  smoked,  he  knew  there  had  been  company. 

He  was  passing  by  on  his  way  to  his  room  when  his 
uncle,  with  a  stern  accent,  in  which  he  strove  to  conceal 
his  weakness  for  the  youth,  called  him. 

This  enforced  severity  on  the  part  of  his  uncle  al- 
ways stirred  Dave  like  a  caress,  and  with  a  half  smile 
and  that  alacrity  with  which  he  had  been  taught  to  obey 
his  elders,  he  went  immediately. 

Taking  his  stand  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  his 
mind  teeming  with  the  events  of  the  day,  his  heart  un- 
usually light  and  full  of  hope  concerning  Page,  it 

138 


A  SACRIFICE  REVEALED  139 

seemed  to  him  that  the  scene  before  him  was  one  al- 
ready stored  away  as  a  memory. 

Uncle  Ran,  in  his  old,  loose-fitting  sack  suit,  powerful 
and  serene,  was  seated  in  his  ponderous  armchair  be- 
side the  table  upon  which  was,  apparently,  the  accumu- 
lation, in  the  way  of  books  and  papers,  of  years.  For 
a  moment  he  faced  reality  only  as  a  part  of  the  scene. 
He  had  been  seeing  Uncle  Ran  seated  thus  all  his  life, 
in  the  same  attitude,  backed  by  the  same  old  wall  where 
Launcelot  was  riding  away  from  Guinivere  through  a 
forest  of  autumn  leaves.  Always  Uncle  Ran  was 
seated  here,  always  Launcelot  was  riding  away,  and 
always  Guinivere  was  standing  with  bowed  head,  sad 
and  demure. 

Fresh  from  action,  quickened  by  his  own  power  as  a 
speaker,  the  unchangeableness  and  calm  monotony  and 
all  the  things  about  his  daily  life  for  a  moment  stag- 
gered him.  He  put  aside  this  feeling  and  entered. 

"  You've  had  an  exciting  day  ?  "  remarked  Uncle 
Ran. 

"  I  have,"  Dave  smiled,  taking  his  stand  beside  the 
table.  "  Who's  been  telling  you  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Meredith !     He  was  here  this  afternoon." 

"  Of  Meredith  and  Freeland?  "  asked  Dave  quickly, 
as  he  took  his  seat. 

"  Yes.  He  has  been  hearing  something  from  some- 
body —  he  said  he  heard  you  made  a  pretty  fiery 
speech  to  the  boys !  " 

"  Well,  I  had  to,"  Dave  laughed,  "  with  a  pistol  lev- 
eled at  me  by  a  half-drunken  man;  besides,  I'm  sure 
Sam  is  guiltless  of  this  crime !  "  he  added. 

"  So  am  I !  Mr.  Meredith  is  very  much  broken  up 
over  the  death  of  Mr.  Freeland." 

"  I  can  well  understand  that,  sir,"  exclaimed  Dave, 


140       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  they've  been   friends  and  colleagues  many  years." 

"  We  had  a  long  talk  about  old  times  and  about  Bob 
and  his  fine  character.  Bob  Freeland  was  one  of  Na- 
ture's noblemen,  if  ever  there  was  one,  but  what  Mr. 
Meredith  really  came  to  see  me  about  was  yourself!  " 

"  Me  ?  "  asked  Dave,  surprised. 

"  Yes,  he  said  that  he  was  getting  old,  needed  new 
strength  and  brains  and  youth  for  the  firm  and  wanted 
to  know  what  I  thought  of  the  idea  of  Meredith  and 
Lee!" 

"  Uncle  Ran !  "     Dave  had  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"  I  told  him  I  liked  the  idea  very  well.  Sit  down, 
son." 

A  flush  sprang  into  Dave's  face  as  he  re-seated  him- 
self. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Ran?" 

"  I  think  it  will  be  arranged,  Dave,  if  the  idea  appeals 
to  you.  He  doesn't  offer  very  much  money  in  the  be- 
ginning, but  it's  enough  for  you  to  live  on  and  the  rest 
is  with  you,  Dave.  When  did  you  see  Page  ?  " 

"  I  saw  her  to-day,  Uncle  Ran !  " 

"  Well,  now,  I'm  going  to  talk  a  little  about  myself." 

He  paused  and  Dave  answered  respectfully,  "  Yes, 
sir?" 

After  cutting  off  a  piece  of  tobacco  with  an  old  pen- 
knife, rolling  it  in  the  palm  of  his  hands  and  then  plac- 
ing it  in  his  mouth,  Uncle  Ran  replied: 

"  For  a  long  time,  Dave,  I've  been  wanting  to  take 
old  Hiram  and  go  to  the  little  farm  my  brother  left 
me,  in  Amelia  County.  I  want  to  get  to  the  heart  of 
nature  once  more  and  see  if  I  can't  feel,"  —  Uncle 
Ran's  smile  was  but  the  ghost  of  one, — "  a  boy  again 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Some  people  have  one  passion, 
some  another,  and  mine  seems  to  be  to  get  right  in 


A  SACRIFICE  REVEALED  141 

among  those  seventeen  oak  trees  that  surround  the  lit- 
tle house  and  hear  the  acorns  fall.  Everything  about 
those  trees,  from  their  just  standing  bare  and  leafless, 
to  the  time  they  put  out  their  first  leaves  and  on  to 
acorn  time,  seems  to  have  gotten  on  my  mind.  And 
the  old  well,  and  the  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  — 
everything  up  there  that  was  a  part  of  my  boyhood. 
I've  been  thinking  about  it,  as  I  just  said,  for  a  long 
time." 

Uncle  Ran's  voice  grew  a  bit  unsteady,  and  Dave 
thought  his  hand  trembled.  "  I  want  to  get  to  the 
country,  my  boy ;  I'm  an  old  man ;  I  want  a  few  years 
there  where  I  can  just  sit  and  think  about  old  times. 
My  work  ended  in  this  life  to-day,  Dave,  and  from  now 
on,  I  want  to  be  an  onlooker  of  God's  Virginia,  not 
man's !  The  Richmond  our  fathers  made  doesn't  exist 

any  more  for  those  like  me, —  hasn't  since  those  d n 

Yankees  set  foot  here !  " 

The  powerful  old  form  lifted  itself  slowly,  and  Uncle 
Ran,  somewhat  resembling  the  old  oaks  his  heart 
craved,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  But  I  couldn't,  you  see,"  he  said,  "  until  you  were 
launched." 

Dave  also  arose,  and  for  an  instant  they  stood  gaz- 
ing into  each  other's  eyes  with  passionate  tenderness. 

"  Uncle  Ran,"  Dave  exclaimed  in  a  clear  but  choking 
voice,  "  you've  been  living  all  these  years  for  me !  " 

"  Something  like  it,  Dave." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

STRUGGLES   IN    NEW    CONDITIONS 

THE  next  few  days  the  weather  was  rainy,  a  bit  raw 
and  chill  —  a  cold  June  spell.  But  on  the  morning  of 
Emily's  wedding  day  it  was  altogether  different  — 
clear,  with  a  strong  fresh  wind  blowing. 

June  was  well  advanced,  and  Page  arose  at  seven 
o'clock  and,  taking  a  hurried  breakfast,  started  out  to 
the  market  to  secure  the  kind  of  flowers  she  needed  to 
finish  her  decorations  of  the  altar  in  the  church,  where 
the  ceremony  was  to  occur  at  twelve  o'clock.  She 
carried  a  large  basket  on  her  arm  and  wore  her  straw 
hat  with  the  pink  roses,  and  her  sweet  face  was  as  fresh 
as  the  summer  day  she  faced. 

Her  heart  was  sad  for  Emily  going  bravely  to  her 
doom,  for  Page  felt  it  was  that,  and  she  had  received, 
also  the  day  before,  a  dismal  letter  from  Fielding  that 
had  greatly  affected  her. 

But  Page,  now  that  the  marriage  was  a  foregone 
conclusion,  tried  to  cheer  herself.  A  marriage  was  a 
marriage  after  all,  and  certainly  Emily,  from  a  finan- 
cial standpoint,  was  doing  well.  'Twas  true  Robert 
Hughes'  father  had  been  a  butcher  —  Page  winced  at 
this  —  and  Robert  himself  when  a  little  chap  had  worn 
his  little  butcher's  apron  and  helped  his  father  around 
the  stalls.  But  that  was  some  years  ago,  and  now  Rob- 
ert was  at  the  head  of  the  largest  grocery  store  in 
Richmond  and  thoroughly  respected.  Everyone  spoke 
well  of  Robert  Hughes.  "  What  a  fine  fellow,"  Page 

142 


STRUGGLES  IN  NEW  CONDITIONS     143 

consoled  herself  by  thinking  as  she  went  along,  "  he 
had  always  been !  "  She  tried  to  feel  that  she  was  very 
gay,  and  the  effort  brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks  and 
the  sparkle  to  her  eyes.  She  walked  rapidly,  glancing 
into  the  yards  where  people  were  busy  with  their  flow- 
ers and  up  at  the  glistening  trees  and  blue  sky  upon 
which  white,  billowy  clouds  were  beginning  to  sail 
about  restlessly. 

The  atmosphere  was  clear  as  yellow  wine,  and,  as 
the  day  advanced,  the  breezes  became  soft  and  voluptu- 
ous. It  was  growing  warm.  The  day  reminded  Page 
of  one,  long  dead  now,  when  she  and  David  Lee,  little 
strangers  in  the  world  —  she  scarcely  seven  —  had 
looked  out,  and  found  it  wondrous.  Dave  loved  her 
then ;  he  loved  her  now  —  his  love  had  always  been 
hers  like  a  possession,  a  jewel,  to  be  worn  or  not,  as 
she  liked.  She  indulged  the  new  vision  of  him  when 
he  had  saved  Sam  and  felt  new  pride  in  him. 

The  scene  that  greeted  her  when  she  reached  the 
market  place  was  one  dear  to  her  eyes.  She  always 
looked  upon  it  as  one  looks  upon  a  shifting  scene  upon 
the  stage.  It  was  a  moving  scene,  for  the  figures  in  it 
were  mostly  old,  and  they  were  rapidly  drifting  to 
what  they  called  "  the  kingdom  come." 

They  were  the  colored  people  from  the  country,  old 
men  and  women,  who  came  in  before  daylight  each  day, 
and  took  their  places  on  the  sidewalk  outside  the  mar- 
ket proper  with  their  wares.  These  wares  consisted  of 
flowers,  mostly  wild,  tied  in  rude  bunches  with  cotton 
strings,  and  onions  and  lettuce,  and  other  vegetables. 
Here  they  stood  around  the  market,  some  fat,  some 
tall  and  lean,  some  decrepit,  some  gray-haired,  and  all, 
each  one,  grotesquely  costumed.  The  bandanna  tur- 
ban, could  be  seen  on  men  and  women,  but  not  a 


144       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

whole  shoe  among  the  lot.  The  women  mostly  wore 
gingham  aprons  and  stood  with  hands  clasped  over 
their  stomachs  ready  for  a  word,  and  especially  ready 
for  a  joke,  which  pleased  them  all  the  better  if  a 
double-meaning  was  involved. 

Page  knew  many  of  these  good  old  souls,  and  not 
one  ever  failed  to  question  her  as  to  "  when  she  was 
guine  git  married."  Marriage  in  the  eyes  of  these 
simple  beings  was  the  all  important  event  of  a  lady's 
life,  the  pivot  upon  which  all  turned.  The  men  in- 
variably complimented  her.  They  told  her  she  "  sure 
was  growin'  pretty,"  or  she  was  "  jess  like  her  ma,  the 
beautifullest  creature  what  ever  drew  breath,"  and 
sometimes  Page,  who  loved  all  tales  of  the  past,  would 
stop  to  listen,  and  they  entertained  her  with  not  only 
interesting,  but  beautiful  stories.  They  invariably 
contrasted  the  present  unfavorably  with  the  past  and 
the  pathetic  expressions  in  some  of  the  fine  old  faces, 
rapidly  growing  careworn,  was  most  touching. 

These  poor  redeemed  savages  were  not  ambitious, 
and  attached  little  importance  to  what  they  had  to  sell ; 
they  expected  to  make  only  a  few  pennies,  which  they 
would  invest  at  sundown  in  bacon,  a  little  sugar  and 
coffee,  and  start  forth  to  reach  home  by  bed-time. 
Some  of  them  came  ten  miles  on  foot,  thinking  nothing 
of  the  journey,  and  others  came  in  some  kind  of  an  old 
wagon,  with  a  broken-down  horse  that  never  went  out 
of  a  walk. 

The  picture  of  them  vanishing  into  the  night,  taking 
various  roads  to  their  many  little  cabins  built  all  about 
in  woods,  often  rose  before  Page,  and  she  would  stand 
among  them  wondering  what  kind  of  markets  in  later 
years  would  be  in  Richmond,  and  what  kind  of  build- 
ings would  be  on  the  spot  where  to-day  these  dear  old 


STRUGGLES  IN  NEW  CONDITIONS     145 

souls  congregated  with  their  fruits  and  berries  or  sim- 
ple wild  flowers  to  make  a  little  money  to  keep  body 
and  soul  together,  and  to  chat  and  gossip  among  them- 
selves or  with  the  whites.  To  her  it  seemed  they  were 
very  interesting,  for  she  knew  when  they  were  gone 
there  would  be  no  more  like  them  in  Richmond  or  on 
the  face  of  the  earth. 

Page  bought  the  flowers  and  was  starting  to  the 
church  when  she  ran  into  an  old  friend.  As  they  ap- 
proached each  other  a  flush  rose  to  his  face,  and  he 
looked  across  the  street,  and  had  she  not  called  out  to 
him,  he  would  have  passed  her  without  speaking. 

"  Well !  "  Page  exclaimed,  "  is  this  how  you  are  go- 
ing to  pass  me  by?  " 

He  stopped;  the  flush  had  faded;  he  was  pale  and 
tears  gushed  to  his  eyes.  He  took  her  outstretched 
hand  in  a  sharp  grasp.  "  Miss  Page,"  he  said,  his 
voice  faltering,  "  I  did  not  know  whether  you  were 
going  to  speak  to  me  or  not.  Many  of  the  young 
ladies  have  cut  me." 

"  Ned !  "  Page  exclaimed,  and  her  own  eyes  filled. 
Poor,  brave,  handsome  fellow,  he  had  come  near  starv- 
ation last  year  and  had  accepted  a  position  as  principal 
of  a  public  school,  a  negro  public  school  for  boys. 

"  Do  you  think  I  don't  hate  it  ?  "  he  burst  out,  brush- 
ing the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

They  walked  on,  both  silent,  and  before  they  had 
gone  many  blocks,  two  people  had  turned  their  heads 
so  as  not  to  see  him.  He  was  terribly  in  disgrace,  was 
this  gallant  young  Southerner.  Finally  he  spoke  and 
told  Page  excitedly  all  about  it.  How  the  place  had 
been  offered  him,  how  he  had  indignantly  refused  it, 
and  went  home  and  found  his  mother  hungry,  and  how 
he  had  got  down  on  his  knees  before  he  went  to  bed  that 


146        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

night  and  prayed  to  God  to  tell  him  what  to  do  in  the 
matter.  "  And  Miss  Page,"  he  continued,  "  as  surely 
as  you  and  I  are  alive  to-day,  God  told  me  to  do  this 
thing,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it  as  long  as  I  can  hold  my 
job  and  do  my  duty  by  the  niggers,  too!  " 

"  I  know  you  are,  Ned !  "  Page  answered  in  a  choked 
voice. 

"  It's  awful,  though,"  he  went  on,  "  apart  from  what 
I'm  going  through  socially,  it's  awful.  You  can't  con- 
ceive of  the  density  of  those  little  skulls.  I  sometimes 
think  I've  got  to  take  a  hammer  and  crack  them  open 
to  get  ABC  into  their  heads." 

"  Oh,  Ned,  and  what's  the  use?  "  Page  asked  dole- 
fully. 

"  Not  a  bit,  and  that's  the  worst  of  it;  that's  what 
makes  it  so  hard  to  take  interest  in  the  task  and  to  do 
it  seriously  and  honestly.  My  heart  isn't  in  it.  I  know 
if  they  ever  learn  anything,  which,  thank  God,  I  don't 
think  they  will,  it  will  only  make  bigger  fools  of 
them." 

"What  does  Fanny  say?"  Page  questioned  cau- 
tiously. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  it ;  she  can't  forgive  it !  " 

"  I  can't  believe  it  of  Fanny !  "  Fanny  and  Ned  had 
always  been  "  engaged "  ever  since  Page  could  re- 
member. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  blame  her,"  broke  forth  the  man. 
"  Her  father  and  brothers  influence  her.  She  doesn't 
dare  stand  up  for  me.  Why,  I  haven't  seen  her  in  four 
weeks,  Miss  Page." 

"  You're  a  brave  fellow,  Ned !  " 

He  laughed  a  little.  "  I  don't  believe  I  am,"  he  said. 
"  I  think  I  must  be  a  coward,  otherwise  I  wouldn't  suf- 
fer so.  Why,  it's  worse  than  facing  the  Yankees  to 


STRUGGLES  IN  NEW  CONDITIONS     147 

walk  down  Main  street,  where  most  of  my  friends  and 
my  father's  friends  hold  me  in  contempt." 

"  I  am  going  to  see  Fanny  and  give  her  a  piece  of 
my  mind !  "  exclaimed  Page. 

"  No,  don't  do  that,  Miss  Page,  but  tell  her  that  I'm 
suffering,  and  tell  her  not  to  forget  that  I  did  it  for 
mother.  That  isn't  exactly  a  manly  appeal,  but  it's 
true,  and  I've  got  a  right  to  say  it  to  her." 

"  I  know  she  loves  you,  Ned." 

"  I  know  it  too,  Miss  Page." 

"  And  she's  suffering !  " 

"  Of  course,  but  it  was  between  her  and  mother.  I 
did  what  I  thought  was  right.  Why,  Miss  Page,  moth- 
er's health  was  failing.  For  a  long  time  she  hadn't 
had  proper  food !  What  else  could  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  did  just  right!  " 

"  Thank  you ;  you're  the  first  person  I  have  opened 
my  lips  to  on  the  subject.  Good-by,  and  God  bless 
you,  Miss  Page.  Go  and  see  mother,  won't  you?  " 

"  I  will !  " 

He  turned  and  left  her  and  walked  down  the  street, 
his  head  bowed  in  thought,  and  there  came  into  Page's 
mind  that  in  some  respects  he  and  she  were  in  the  same 
boat.  He  had  taken  advantage  of  the  new  opportuni- 
ties that  offered  for  an  independent  existence :  her  de- 
sire to  go  to  New  York  had  the  same  end  in  view. 
Suppose  she  took  this  step,  would  the  people  cut  her  as 
they  had  cut  Ned  ? 

The  thought  frightened  her,  and  she  finally  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  no  one  willed  things;  Richmond  it- 
self and  all  the  inhabitants  were  sailing  along  as  though 
moved  by  some  invisible  mechanism.  She  planted  her 
feet  firmly  on  the  sidewalk,  experiencing  a  sense  of 
relief  that  it  remained  intact  and  solid. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A   MOCK  CEREMONY 

BY  half-past  eleven  o'clock  the  church  was  crowded 
and  the  buzz  of  voices  suppressed  but  animated  was 
most  audible. 

The  church  had  been  charmingly  decorated  by  Page 
and  a  host  of  Emily's  girl  friends  and  nothing  was 
wanting  to  add  loveliness  to  the  old  altar  where  Emily 
was  to  be  sacrificed. 

There  were  no  sad  faces,  even  though  there  might 
have  been  sad  hearts,  at  this  festival.  All  was  sun- 
shine, brightness,  and  beauty.  The  women  wore  flow- 
ers on  their  simple  gowns  and  the  men  had  them 
pinned  in  their  button-holes.  Flowers  did  service  for 
everything. 

There  were  to  be  no  bridesmaids,  a  simple  travel- 
ing suit,  although  Emily  was  not  going  traveling,  hav- 
ing been  decided  upon  as  the  most  inexpensive.  She 
was  to  appear  in  a  mauve  colored  cashmere  with  a 
straw  hat  covered  in  white  flowers  and  everybody 
knew  it,  also,  that  she  was  to  "  carry  "  camelias. 

Page,  with  a  beautiful  flush  on  her  face  as  she 
passed  Dave  in  the  lobby,  walked  quickly  down  the 
center  aisle  and  took  the  seat  reserved  for  her  near 
the  front.  Aunt  Constance,  in  a  lavender  silk  that 
had  performed  service  during  the  war  and  was  as  well 
known  as  her  delicate  face,  and  with  her  hands  cov- 
ered with  a  pair  of  much  darned  silk  mitts,  had  already 
arrived  and  the  two  instantly  commenced  a  whispered 

148 


A  MOCK  CEREMONY  149 

conversation.  Page  spread  out  her  dress  and  placed 
her  bouquet  on  it  to  save  a  seat  for  her  Cousin  Betty 
who  finally  appeared,  lively  enough  and  quite  excited. 

"  I  saw  Fielding  outside,"  she  whispered  as  she 
took  her  seat.  ''  He  looked  like  Edwin  Booth  in  Ham- 
let, poor  fellow." 

"  He  is  indeed  the  melancholy  Dane,  to-day,"  ex- 
claimed Page.  "  I  saw  him  too  and  my  heart  went 
out  to  him.  Fielding  has  always  been  my  favorite 
cousin." 

"Oh!  That's  because  he's  the  handsomest!" 
Cousin  Betty  laughed. 

"  What  a  beautiful  day  it  is,"  whispered  Aunt  Con- 
stance, but  a  little  shadow  of  unrest  fell  upon  her 
features  as  she  added,  "  but  these  caressing  days  in 
June  are  always  the  precursors  of  storms  and  it  is 
so  in  other  things.  Everything  so  far  about  Emily's 
wedding  is  passing  off  beautifully,  and  yet  I  feel  an 
unaccountable  dread  in  my  heart  as  though  something 
terrible  were  going  to  happen." 

"  Nonsense,"  exclaimed  Cousin  Betty,  "  no  trou- 
ble will  come  to  Emily.  She'll  accept  things  as  her 
mother  does  —  she's  trained  to  believe  that  the  word 
husband  means  all  that  is  right.  You  will  see !  " 

There  wras  a  sudden  commotion  at  the  door  now 
and  whispers  of  "  the  bride  "  were  exchanged.  But 
it  was  a  false  alarm  and  quite  another  wait  ensued. 

But  at  last  the  wedding  march  really  burst  forth 
and  Emily  appeared  at  the  entrance  to  the  aisle  lean- 
ing on  her  father's  arm.  The  groom,  whose  florid 
face  was  pathetically  white  and  whose  stout  body  was 
tragically  rigid,  made  his  appearance  from  the  rector's 
study  and  took  his  stand  at  the  altar.  His  new 
clothes  glared  out  on  him  like  fresh  paint;  his  shoes 


150       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

creaked  audibly  and  his  hands  seemed  bursting  out 
of  his  white  kid  gloves. 

Emily  was  pale,  too,  very  pale,  and  sweet  and  ten- 
der, as  she  went  forward  to  lay  her  small  hand  in  the 
one  bursting  from  its  glove. 

She  was  not  pale  when  she  came  out  after  the  cere- 
mony. Two  round  scarlet  spots  the  size  of  silver 
dollars  burned  in  her  cheeks.  A  hush  had  fallen  on 
the  entire  congregation  and  all  peered  curiously  into 
the  young  face  as  it  passed  them.  What  thoughts  and 
feelings  had  burned  those  red  spots  in  her  cheeks? 
Each  one  tried  to  enter  her  mind  and  find  out. 

The  gas  had  burned  brightly  in  the  darkened  church 
but  outside  was  the  broad  daylight.  All  the  effects 
of  light  and  shade  came  out  vividly. 

Fielding,  who  had  not  witnessed  the  ceremony,  was 
standing  on  the  curb.  He  saw  the  red  spots  in  Em- 
ily's cheeks,  and  she  saw  his  sunken,  haggard  eyes. 
One  swift  glance  passed  between  them;  then  they 
drove  her  away. 

The  day  had  continued  to  grow  beautiful.  All  the 
trees  were  swaying  gently  and  rustling.  The  sky 
was  a  soft  gray,  and  upon  it  billowy  white  clouds  con- 
tinued to  take  majestic  shapes.  The  atmosphere  was 
still  like  yellow  wine,  and  the  grass  of  such  a  vivid 
green  that  it  seemed  about  to  sparkle. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  family  and  a  few 
near  relatives  were  to  assemble  at  Emily's  new  home 
for  a  kind  of  luncheon.  They  were  all  going  there 
now,  there  to  the  little  new  house  where  everything 
was  vulgarly  new,  except  the  old  gifts  that  would 
stand  out  pained  and  insulted  by  their  surroundings. 
Every  one  was  realizing  vaguely  that  Emily  would 
be  there  in  the  midst  of  the  first  new  things  she  had 


A  MOCK  CEREMONY  151 

ever  known,  and  be  it  confessed  some  few  envied 
those  that  would  arrive  from  the  new  grocery  store. 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  for  the  best,"  said  Aunt  Con- 
stance, as  she  and  Page  sauntered  along  under  Aunt 
Constance's  old  sun  umbrella,  each  division  of  which 
was  embroidered  by  fine  little  pin  holes,  "  but  I  have 
my  doubts." 

"  Doubts !  "  exclaimed  Page  bitterly.  "  There  are 
no  doubts  in  my  mind  about  her  unhappiness.  And 
did  you  see  poor  Fielding's  eyes?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Constance,  "  I  did." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

DESPERATE    CHIVALRY 

ALL  day  Fielding  Peyton  roamed  the  streets. 

Several  times,  a  thing  most  unusual  for  him,  he 
entered  a  saloon  and  threw  down  a  large  drink  of 
whisky.  Once  he  leaned  for  over  an  hour  on  the  bar 
listening  absently  to  the  conversations  going  on  and 
watching  with  a  vacant  stare  those  who  came  and 
went.  He  did  this  mechanically,  experiencing  no 
physical  reminders.  It  was  as  though  his  spirit  were 
wandering  aimlessly  about.  He  did  not  seem  to  be 
suffering  but  only  to  be  experiencing  absent-minded- 
ness. He  could  not  remember  whom  he  had  seen  or 
whether  he  had  spoken  to  people.  He  ate  nothing. 

His  mind  was  confused.  He  was  not  thinking  of 
Emily,  but  of  all  the  things  that  had  led  up  to  to- 
day's happenings. 

A  vast  and  mighty  canvas  swam  before  his  eyes 
that  was  like  the  heavens  without  a  cloud  and  upon 
it  was  painted  in  terrible  strokes  and  fierce  colors  all 
the  tragic  events  of  twenty  years.  He  gazed  upon 
this  powerful  drama  fascinated.  He  not  only  saw 
the  terrific  contour  but  horrifying  details. 

One  picture  followed  another  in  rapid  succession. 
First  the  war  with  all  its  bloody  horrors  rolled  be- 
fore him.  He  saw  armies  traveling  slowly  or  trav- 
eling quickly,  their  bayonets  flashing  in  the  sunlight, 
or  dull  beneath  a  leaden  sky.  Then  he  saw  these 
armies  stationary  in  the  moonlight  or  half  lost  to  sight 


153 

in  the  blackness  of  a  night  unlit  by  moon  or  stars. 
He  saw  rain  descending  upon  them,  or  snow,  or  fierce 
hail,  but  worst  of  all  the  heat  of  the  sun  which  also 
descended  in  streams.  He  saw  pine  forests  riddled 
with  bullets  and  the  ground  soaked  in  blood,  above 
which  floated  flags  tattered  and  gory.  He  saw  the 
shadowy  forms  of  men  and  horses;  the  men  lying  on 
their  faces  or  with  faces  turned  upwards;  the  horses 
in  grotesque  positions,  their  heads  stretched  out  in 
the  agony  of  death  or  their  stiff  legs  pointing  hide- 
ously upwards. 

Then  these  scenes  would  recede  and  he  would  see 
only  bare,  uncultivated,  grayish  fields  where  desola- 
tion reigned. 

Once  it  seemed  to  him  that  women's  white  faces 
appeared  upon  one  of  these  bare  fields  and  bloomed 
upon  it  close  to  the  earth  like  pallid  flowers.  He  saw 
in  another  picture  the  period  that  followed  the  war, 
all  the  stagnation,  inactivity,  desolation,  and  awful 
poverty.  He  saw  the  infamy  that  sprang  up  and  the 
struggle  of  his  people  to  live  under  an  oppression  and 
insolence  worse  than  war  because  there  was  no  hero- 
ism to  uphold  them. 

He  saw  all  these  things  intensified  as  though  under 
a  strong  light  because  of  one  thing  —  he  loved  a 
woman  and  that  woman  was  one  of  the  victims  of 
what  this  kaleidoscopic  picture  had  revealed. 

Sharp  realizations  came  to  him  keenly  for  the  first 
time,  realizations  that  had  been  accepted  as  the  dumb, 
persecuted,  overdriven  animal  accepts  the  lash.  "With 
a  pang  that  was  like  the  cutting  of  the  bullet  through 
flesh,  he  understood  that  in  the  South  a  real  slavery 
had  begun  —  the  traffic  in  white  women.  These 
women  who  had  always  married  for  love  were  being 


154       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

sold,  or,  were  selling  themselves,  for  bread.  His  love 
had  been  sold  in  the  face  and  in  the  name  of  God. 
She  in  whose  veins  flowed  the  refinement  of  genera- 
tions, she  whose  heart  was  gentle,  whose  flesh  was 
tender,  whose  ears  had  never  heard  a  coarse  word, 
whose  eyes  had  never  looked  upon  a  coarse  scene, 
had  been  sold  to  a  brute  to  do  with  as  he  would.  He 
saw  her  helplessness;  her  bitter  tears  in  the  silent 
hours  of  the  night.  He  heard  her  smothered  cries  of 
terror  and  fear  and  he  saw  no  war  in  her  cause  and 
that  no  man  protected  her. 

For  a  while  his  mind  dwelt  upon  current  things. 

Daily  the  papers  were  full  of  the  horrors  of  ne- 
groes being  burnt  at  the  stake.  These  horrors  and 
agonies  flashed  by  the  telegraph  thousands  of  miles, 
caused  shivers  to  pass  through  millions  of  people. 
Emily  was  to  be  burnt  at  the  stake  and  he  was  not 
preventing  it. 

Emily  herself  appeared  in  the  picture  with  laugh- 
ter on  her  lips,  as  though  to  mock  him.  She  wore 
a  wreath  of  wild  flowers  in  her  hair  as  he  had  seen 
her  one  day  standing  beside  a  brook  in  the  dense 
woods.  Many  pictures  of  her  appeared  after  this  one 
and  always,  as  though  to  torture  him,  she  was  laugh- 
ing. Even  when  the  picture  presented  showed  her 
folded  fast  in  his  arms,  her  head  was  bent  back  and 
she  was  laughing  in  his  face.  His  whole  frame  trem- 
bled at  that  maddening,  joyous  countenance  wreathed 
in  smiles.  There  had  been  no  smile  in  Emily's  face 
to-day  when  her  frightened  eyes  met  his  for  an  in- 
stant —  what  he  read  there  was  childish  terror  and 
piteous  appeal  as  they  whirled  her  away,  seated  beside 
the  grotesque  creature  who  had  bought  her. 

When  it  was  dark,  he  found  that  he  had  wandered 


DESPERATE  CHIVALRY  155 

to  the  place  where  the  sacrifice  of  Emily  was  to  be 
completed.  The  image  vanished  but  the  actual  scene 
was  even  more  like  a  picture,  and  had,  to  his  feverish 
gaze,  less  reality. 

There  was  a  small  tree  directly  in  front  of  the 
house.  This  tree  recently  set  out  was  quite  as  new 
as  the  house  itself  and  its  slender  body  was  protected 
by  a  delicate  framework  painted  a  pale  bizarre  green. 

Fielding  took  his  stand  beneath  the  young  tree  and 
began  to  watch  the  house,  at  first  absently,  as  had  been 
his  wont  all  day,  but  after  a  while  eagerly,  with  mor- 
bid interest,  as  though  it  was  a  phantom  that  would 
soon  vanish  before  his  gaze. 

It  was  a  small  brick  house  only  two  stories  high 
and  two  rooms  deep.  The  bricks  of  which  it  was  com- 
posed were  of  a  vivid  red,  separated  by  glaring  streaks 
of  white  and  a  narrow  porch  or  veranda  painted  white 
extended  across  the  entire  lower  floor.  The  parlor 
windows  opened  out  on  this  porch. 

The  light  from  an  old  street  lamp  on  the  opposite 
corner  shone  directly  through  the  slender  tree  under 
which  Fielding  stood  and  cast  trembling  shadows  of 
its  leaves  upon  the  house. 

The  scenes  that  Fielding  had  been  witnessing  all  day 
were  masterpieces  of  art  —  what  he  saw  now  — 
seemed  to  be  gazing  upon  —  was  a  vulgar  little 
chromo.  Gradually  the  details  stood  out.  The  par- 
lor windows  had  been  left  open  but  the  second  story 
ones  were  closed  and  the  cheap  white  shades,  against 
which  a  dim  light  shone,  were  down.  The  parlor  was 
dark  but  the  dining-room  beyond  was  brightly  lighted 
and  through  the  open  folding-doors  Fielding  could 
see  the  entire  room  distinctly.  What  was  going  on 
was  vivid  and  bright  like  the  well-lighted  stage  of  a 


156       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

theater.  Emily  was  not  present.  A  colored  girl  was 
setting  the  table  and  he  who  was  to  perform  the  rites 
of  Emily's  sacrifice  —  lay  the  delicate  flesh  upon  the 
burning  coals,  was  standing  with  his  compact  back  to 
the  parlor  looking  out  of  a  rear  window. 

For  hours,  it  seemed  to  Fielding,  that  this  scene, 
the  colored  girl  setting  the  table  and  the  man  looking 
out  of  the  window,  was  before  his  eyes. 

Finally  a  little  bell  tinkled  and  a  moment  later  Em- 
ily entered  timidly,  cautiously  rather,  and,  as  the  man 
at  the  window  turned,  Fielding  started. 

Emily  had  changed  her  dress  to  a  simple  white  mus- 
lin. Her  face  was  as  pale  as  a  camelia  lying  on  a 
coffin.  She  seemed  during  the  day  to  have  grown 
thin  to  emaciation  and  her  dress  hung  upon  her 
limply.  On  closer  scrutiny  her  blanched  features 
seemed  to  Fielding  those  of  a  dead  child.  She  walked 
slowly  towards  the  table  and  took  her  seat  at  the  head 
as  one  who  is  seating  herself  for  the  first  time  before 
a  prison  meal.  The  man  took  his  seat  opposite  and 
the  colored  girl  commenced  serving  the  supper.  Em- 
ily ate  little  and  toyed  with  the  spoon  in  her  saucer 
while  her  husband,  who  appeared  to  be  hungry,  ate 
heartily  of  the  steak  that  he  had  cut  knowingly  and 
with  understanding  of  its  tenderest  parts  with  a  flash- 
ing new  carving  knife  —  a  wedding  present  —  and  of 
the  light  rolls  and  batter-bread.  Three  times  Emily 
poured  tea  for  him  and  then  sat  waiting.  Sometimes 
she  looked  straight  ahead  of  her  and  it  seemed  to 
Fielding  that  their  eyes  met,  but  she  would  turn  them 
absently  away  and  look  startled  to  one  side  of  her. 
When  the  servant  left  the  room  he  noticed  that  her 
eyes  followed  her  supplicatingly. 

When  supper  was  over,  her  husband  approached 


DESPERATE  CHIVALRY  157 

her  and  leaning  over  attempted  to  kiss  her.  She 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  faced  him  furiously,  like  a 
young  animal  that  had  been  attacked,  her  eyes  full  of 
defiance. 

Fielding,  whose  own  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  be- 
come streams  of  light  that  touched  the  objects  they 
rested  upon,  stared  at  the  man  whose  gaze  of  helpless 
astonishment  was  fixed  upon  Emily. 

His  appearance  filled  him  with  disgust.  He  was  a 
blond  man,  not  tall,  and  of  a  solid  stout  build.  Field- 
ing suddenly  remembered  that  his  mother  was  a  Ger- 
man woman  and  how  her  red  cheeks  had  made  an 
impression  on  his  childish  mind.  Her  son  was  like 
her  and  wore  his  flaxen  hair,  the  color  of  her  own,  in 
pompadour  style.  The  face  was  coarse  but  not 
homely  and  the  blue  eyes  were  honest  and  sincere. 
The  mouth  and  teeth  were  almost  fine.  The  defect 
lay  in  the  nose  that  was  rather  short  and  twisted  to 
one  side.  It  was  altogether  a  kind  face  with  honesty 
of  purpose  written  plainly  upon  it.  It  revealed  the 
character  of  a  man  who  could  never  rise  to  great 
heights  but  who  could  never  fall  to  low  depths,  a 
man  who  would  always  be  able  to  help  others  by  help- 
ing himself.  A  self-reliant  man  who  expected  that 
others  would  lean  on  him.  He  was  prepared  to  al- 
low Emily's  whole  family  to  lean  on  him.  There 
was  no  more  comfortable  woman  in  Richmond  than 
his  mother.  And  so,  Robert  was  a  man,  self-made, 
but  a  man. 

But  Fielding  saw  none  of  this.  He  saw  the  butcher 
boy  who  had  developed  into  a  brute  with  the  power 
to  slay  a  virgin.  To  his  excited  gaze  the  face  of  the 
man  as  he  stared  into  it  grew  to  enormous  propor- 
tions. Then  the  body  grew  until  it  vanished  and  be- 


158       THE  DAUGHTER  OP  A  REBEL 

came  a  grotesque  figure  that  threatened  horror  and 
injustice  to  a  conquered  aristocracy  —  a  thing  that 
had  made  its  way  among  them  and  to  whom  inch  by 
inch  they  were  yielding;  a  thing  that  could  supply 
food  and  raiment  and  shelter  to  the  down-trodden 
and  the  overcome  and  in  return  become  a  devourer 
and  destroyer  of  what  it  had  sheltered. 

Finally  Emily  again  mechanically  seated  herself  at 
the  table.  The  man  seated  himself,  too,  while  the  col- 
ored girl  cleared  away  the  dishes. 

Fielding  did  not  move.  He  stood  like  one  petrified 
and  never  shifted  his  gaze. 

Suddenly  all  the  agony  that  his  brain  had  experi- 
enced began  to  attack  his  body.  Pains  shot  through 
his  head,  his  limbs  ached  and  for  an  instant  his  sight 
failed  him  so  that  he  was  seized  with  alarm  lest  he 
could  no  longer  see  through  the  window.  He  tried 
to  clear  his  vision  that  he  might  behold  Emily,  as  it 
were,  for  the  last  time  —  fix  her  forever  in  his  brain. 
He  took  in  her  smooth  brown  hair,  recalling  vividly 
that  once  in  a  sharp  wind  when  she  was  dashing 
through  the  woods  with  him  on  horseback  it  had 
tumbled  down  and  enveloped  her.  He  noted  the  clear 
eyes  that  had  laughed  or  swam  in  tears,  the  little  nose 
cut  as  no  other  nose  ever  was  with  its  charming  sensi- 
tive nostrils;  the  deep  cleft  in  the  upper  lip;  the  lips 
themselves  curved  and  inviting  that  over  and  over  had 
yielded  to  his;  the  voluptuous  throat;  the  young  over- 
ripe bosom;  the  smooth  body  with  skin  of  satin,  the 
whole  tender  virgin  whom  God  had  created  for  him 
and  who  had  been  torn  from  him  to  be  made  a  living 
sacrifice  of.  His  throat  ached  to  bursting  and  sud- 
denly he  was  carried  away  by  rage. 

To  him  that  creature  waiting  to  possess  her,  with 


DESPERATE  CHIVALRY  159 

his  brute-like  tendencies  and  lack  of  imagination,  was 
no  more  capable  of  love  than  the  beast  of  the  field. 
The  most  that  Emily  could  become  to  him,  after  the 
first  abandonment,  was  a  habit  —  a  recreation,  like 
the  habitual  Sunday  feast  eaten  by  the  dull  glutton. 
And  this  creature  would  daily  be  at  her  side!  He 
would  hear  her  sighs,  see  her  tears,  their  very  breaths 
would  mingle  and  he  himself  would  follow  his  mule 
through  the  broiling  sun  and  stand  alone  at  night 
contemplating  all  this,  while  the  world  slept  beneath 
distant  stars. 

He  was  so  changed,  as  these  thoughts  chased 
through  his  mind,  that  an  acquaintance  in  passing 
might  not  have  recognized  him.  He  put  his  face  con- 
vulsively in  his  hands  as  if  to  shut  out  the  vision, 
grown  unbearable,  but  immediately  withdrew  them 
and  gazed  again. 

Meanwhile  the  night  was  growing  intensely  black. 
Heavy  clouds  were  hurrying  together  as  with  a  dis- 
tinct purpose,  that  of  effacing  the  moon,  and  the  lit- 
tle tree  that  had  fluttered  so  gayly  became  silent  and 
immovable  as  if  awestruck.  Momently  it  grew  closer 
as  though  rain  would  soon  fall,  and  as  Fielding  drew 
himself  up  in  an  effort  to  breathe  more  freely  he 
wished  for  a  clap  of  thunder  that  would  relieve  the 
intense  pressure  that  he  felt  upon  him  and  clear  his 
head. 

It  did  not  come  and  the  oppression  in  the  atmos- 
phere increased.  Once  he  feared  that  he  was  suffo- 
cating and  tugged  at  his  collar.  As  this  fear  of  death 
took  possession  of  him  a  new  idea  occurred  to  him. 
He  realized  that  if  he  died  this  moment  in  the  throes 
of  a  great  anguish  he  would  never  have  realized  one 
hour  of  unalloyed  happiness  in  his  entire  life.  He 


160       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

felt  with  poignant  bitterness  that  he  was  one  whom 
God  had  ordained  for  a  martyr. 

Great  tears  gathered  in  his  hot  staring  eyes  and 
streamed  down  his  cheeks.  He  was  like  one  stand- 
ing in  the  center  of  a  mystic  dream,  on  all  sides  of 
him  scenes  of  horror  and  beyond  the  dream  visions  of 
a  lost  heaven. 

Then  he  saw  Emily  again,  not  as  she  was  there  be- 
fore him  defiantly  protecting  herself,  but  as  she  would 
be  when  the  time  came  for  her  to  be  overcome  and  to 
yield  herself  patiently  as  to  a  religious  rite.  The  pale 
face,  the  divine  form,  the  little  passive  hands,  one  with 
its  heavy  circlet  of  gold,  all  rose  before  him.  And 
then  he  beheld  the  violent  amorousness  of  the  man. 
He  thought  of  the  storms  careering  through  the  burly 
body,  the  passionate  trembling,  the  kisses  pressed  in 
delirium  upon  her  lips. 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  these  turbulent  thoughts 
Emily,  as  though  commanded,  rose  to  her  feet  in  an 
absent  minded  way,  and  the  man  approached  her  and 
laid  his  hands  firmly  on  her  shoulders.  She  no 
longer  resisted,  her  form  relaxed,  her  head  lowered. 
She  was  listening.  He  spoke  a  long  while  and  when 
he  was  through  he  took  his  hands  from  her  shoulders 
and  she  turned  from  him  and  left  the  room  walking 
like  a  somnambulist. 

Robert  Hughes  remained  motionless,  his  eyes  fas- 
tened upon  the  door  through  which  she  had  passed. 
Presently  he  went  hurriedly  to  the  door  but  returned 
to  the  spot  he  had  left  and  remained  still  some  mo- 
ments. 

Fielding  thought  he  could  hear  the  beating  of  his 
heart.  He  strained  forward  as  if  to  listen  but  the 
man  had  changed  his  position  and  was  looking  at  his 


DESPERATE  CHIVALRY  161 

watch.  Then  he  sat  down  and  Fielding  experienced 
an  instant's  relief.  But  almost  immediately  he  rose 
and  went  over  to  the  mantel-piece  and  toyed  with 
some  bric-a-brac.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch  again 
and  with  a  decisive  turn  of  his  sturdy  body  he  went 
over  quickly  to  the  rear  windows,  lowered  them  and 
fastened  the  catches. 

Fielding  again  put  his  hand  over  his  heart  that  was 
throbbing  beneath  the  burning  flesh.  They  were  be- 
ing shut  in  together  with  the  doors  and  windows 
locked!  Again  the  blood  rushed  to  his  brain  so  that 
he  could  not  see. 

When  his  sight  returned  the  entire  scene,  except 
the  man  —  a  man  now,  not  an  idea  —  had  vanished. 
He  saw  only  him,  a  creature  in  a  blinding  light,  bent 
upon  a  crime  as  fierce  in  his  eyes  and  as  black  as  the 
one  for  which  they  burned  negroes  at  the  stake. 

In  another  instant  with  the  quick,  nervous  move- 
ments of  a  panther  he  had  leaped  through  the  open 
parlor  window  and  the  next  instant  his  left  hand,  with 
its  long  sinewy  fingers,  was  around  his  rival's  throat. 
In  a  flash  with  his  right  hand  he  grasped  the  glittering 
new  carving  knife  that  lay  on  the  table  beside  him  and 
raising  it  aloft,  while  his  crazed  eyes  glared  into  the 
bulging  ones  of  his  victim,  he  plunged  it  into  his 
heart ! 

For  moments  they  stood  thus,  then  finally  he  re- 
leased his  hold  and  the  monster  of  his  dream, —  the 
dream  that  had  maddened  him  into  a  murderer, —  lay 
at  his  feet.  The  fall  was  heavy  —  a  dull  thud  that 
rattled  the  china  and  shook  the  small  house. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   LIGHTNING   STRIKES 

WHILE  this  scene  was  being  enacted,  Page,  her 
mind  filled  with  the  events  of  the  day,  was  seated  be- 
side the  window  of  her  little  room  looking  out.  See- 
ing the  terrified  condition  of  Emily  when  they  reached 
Robert  Hughes's  house;  watching  the  deathlike  pal- 
lor that  spread  over  her  features  when  they  literally 
tore  her  mother  from  her  arms;  feeling  the  clinging 
of  those  suddenly  fiercely  strong  arms  about  herself 
as  Emily  had  begged  her  not  to  leave,  had  all  had  a 
most  depressing  effect  upon  her.  She  went  to  bed 
early  but  these  thoughts  and  a  certain  intense  oppres- 
sion in  the  atmosphere  prevented  her  sleeping. 

She  seemed  never  to  have  seen  such  a  night.  The 
sky,  dark,  turbulent,  and  threatening,  was  close  to  the 
earth  and  the  moon  of  a  pale  bluish  color  appeared 
and  disappeared  through  the  ragged  clouds,  reminding 
one  of  the  startled  face  of  a  terrified  fleeing  woman. 
Through  the  entire  city,  beneath  this  convulsed  can- 
opy, there  was  the  quiet  of  the  vanquished  town  and 
the  stagnation  and  ruin  seemed  to  settle  upon  Page. 
There  was  suffocation  as  if  material  things  were 
stifling  and  ready  to  burst  forth  into  activity. 

Her  mental  eye  roamed  over  this  inertness  through 
all  the  familiar  streets.  She  saw  the  closed  factories, 
vacant  stores,  and  vacant  lots;  she  saw  the  broken 
windowT-panes  of  the  vacant  stores  and  the  gray  grimi- 
ness  of  those  that  were  occupied;  she  saw  the  dust 
settling  on  the  dull  fading  paint  of  the  houses  and 

162 


THE  LIGHTNING  STRIKES  163 

palings  of  the  fences  and  the  negroes,  whose  care  and 
pride  these  things  had  been,  abandoned  to  idleness  and 
depravity.  Even  the  River,  not  called  upon  to  do 
much  in  the  way  of  transportation,  rolled  on  tran- 
quilly and  aimlessly,  red  and  sullen,  an  eternal  re- 
minder of  all  the  blood  that  had  flowed. 

In  this  emptiness  and  inert  repose  Page  heard  no 
voice  of  hope;  it  was  as  though  death  were  stealing 
silently  about  to  finally  overcome  all  things. 

Suddenly  a  breath  of  wind  brought  to  her  nostrils 
the  passionate  odor  of  magnolia  blossoms  and  to  her 
ears  faint  strains  of  music,  and  of  male  voices  sing- 
ing. Somewhere,  very  near,  some  one  was  being  sere- 
naded. A  slight  feeling  of  relief  came  to  Page  and, 
remaining  perfectly  still,  she  consciously  breathed  in 
the  odor  of  the  majestic  flower  and  listened  eagerly 
to  the  singing.  How  rich  and  melodious  the  quar- 
tette of  voices  sounded  pouring  forth  the  melody  of 
an  old  song,  and  what  a  sweet  custom  this  of  lovers 
awakening  their  sweethearts  with  beautiful  love- 
songs.  Page  knew  she  would  never  forget  the  sere- 
nades that  she  had  had  and  felt  in  her  heart  that,  in 
spite  of  Dave  and  all  opposition,  there  was  a  possibil- 
ity that  she  would  some  day  be  away  from  these  gentle 
serenades.  She  wished  that  they  would  come  under 
her  window  and  serenade  her. 

The  fact  was  that  her  heart  was  aching  acutely  for 
both  Fielding  and  Err.ily,  and  she  longed  for  the  mu- 
sic that  it  might,  in  a  way,  rest  her,  even  that  it  might 
bring  tears  to  her  dry  wide-open  eyes.  As  though  in 
answer  to  her  wish  the  quartette  soon  appeared  in 
sight  and  when  they  reached  the  house  they  stopped 
under  the  old  weeping  willow,  and,  after  a  pause,  sang 
several  sweet  old  songs. 


164       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

There  was  a  certain  etiquette  observed  in  these 
serenades  that,  after  the  third  song  had  been  sung, 
required  the  one  serenaded  to  throw  something,  usu- 
ally a  glove,  from  the  window.  Page  had  but  one 
pair  of  white  gloves.  They  had  done  service  at  a 
good  many  entertainments  and  were  booked  to  do 
service  at  many  more,  but,  resolving  to  pretend  at  the 
next  party  that  she  had  lost  one  she  rummaged  among 
the  few  possessions  in  her  top  drawer  and  finding  the 
pair  threw  one  out. 

It  caught,  as  she  could  see,  in  the  sudden  flaring 
out  of  the  moon  through  the  still  agitated  clouds,  in 
a  lower  limb  of  the  old  willow  and  they  all  sprang  for 
it.  But  the  possessor  of  it  remained  a  mystery. 

When  the  last  echoes  of  the  final  song  had  died 
away,  the  singers  left  quietly  and  Page  remained 
looking  out  and  thinking. 

In  spite  of  herself  she  continued  to  feel  oppressed. 
The  night  had  grown  a  little  cooler,  but  there  were 
momentary  periods  of  intense  heat  between  the  timid 
gusts  of  breeze.  The  sweetness  of  other  flowers  than 
the  magnolia  reached  her  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
their  effort  to  be  in  full  bloom  by  the  morrow  was 
a  deliciously  appealing  struggle.  What  a  relief  it 
would  be  when  the  night  was  over  and  the  sun  would 
rise  in  splendor  over  all! 

After  a  time  the  sound  of  wheels  arrested  her  at- 
tention. A  vehicle  was  coming  down  the  street. 
This  was  a  rare  occurrence  in  this  quiet  side  street 
and  Page  looked  out.  As  it  gradually  approached 
she  saw  an  open  hack  in  which  a  man  was  seated. 
To  her  astonishment  the  carriage  was  driven  up  to 
her  own  door  and  stopped. 

The  man  looked  up  and,  in  the  uncertain  gloom, 


THE  LIGHTNING  STRIKES  165 

she  instantly  recognized  Dave.  Her  heart  leaped  into 
her  throat  and  without  waiting  to  consider,  she  threw 
on  a  wrapper  and  flew  down  the  steps  and  flung  open 
the  front  door. 

Dave  was  standing  on  the  porch  and  the  sight  of 
his  face  made  her  quail. 

"  Dave,"  she  exclaimed  breathlessly,  "  in  God's 
name  what  is  it  —  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Page,"  he  answered  in  a  husky  voice,  "  go  up- 
stairs and  dress  as  quickly  as  you  can;  you  must  go 
to  Emily!" 

"Emily?" 

"  Yes !  " 

"Dave!  You  look  so  strange  —  what  is  it? 
What  has  happened?  " 

He  took  her  by  the  arm  to  steady  her.  "  Prepare 
yourself  for  an  awful  shock :  Fielding  has  murdered 
Robert  Hughes !  " 

"Fielding!  Robert  Hughes!  Oh!  My  God!" 
She  fell  back  but  Dave  caught  her.  "When? 
Where  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  There,  at  the  home !  Emily  does  not  want  her 
parents  told  until  to-morrow!  She  wants  you.  Col- 
lect yourself  —  you  must  go  to  her!  " 

Without  a  word,  stunned  as  by  a  blow,  Page  turned 
from  him,  and  entering  the  house  staggering,  pulled 
herself  up  the  steps  holding  on  to  the  banisters. 

She  dressed  herself  with  nervous,  trembling  hands, 
and  had  difficulty  finding  things.  Then  she  descended 
and  they  entered  the  hack  and  were  driven  rapidly 
away,  the  wheels  of  the  old  vehicle  making  a  loud 
noise  that  resounded  curiously  on  the  stillness  of  the 
night. 

They  found  Emily  upstairs  seated  on  the  floor,  her 


1 66       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

head  buried  in  the  lap  of  the  mulatto  girl.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  faced  them. 

"Page!"  she  cried,  "he  did  it!  Fielding  is  a 
murderer !  "  Then  she  screamed  and  Page  went  for- 
ward and  folded  her  in  a  fierce  embrace. 

"  Stop,  Emily !  Stop !  My  darling  Emily,  don't 
scream  like  that  again.  I  am  here  —  Page  is  with 
you!" 

And  holding  to  the  girl  she  too  burst  into  sobs. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

BEYOND  HIS  TENSION 

Two  hours  later  Page,  in  appearance  as  much  of  a 
ghost  as  Emily  herself,  descended  the  stairs  softly 
and  confronted  Dave,  seated  upright  in  one  of  Robert 
Hughes's  new  chairs,  staring  straight  before  him. 

Coroners,  policemen,  doctors  had  all  vanished. 
Every  trace  of  the  tragedy  had  disappeared  and  all 
that  remained  was  the  little  new  home  that  Robert 
Hughes  had  prepared  for  his  bride. 

"  Well  ?  "  Dave  asked,  rising  quickly  as  though  an- 
other tragedy  might  be  at  hand. 

"  She  is  asleep  — •  I  gave  her  the  limit  of  the  pre- 
scription: I  had  to  make  her  sleep.  For  the  time, 
thank  God,  she  is  dead  to  it  all.  She  seemed  con- 
scious of  but  one  thing.  Over  and  over  she  repeated 
those  words,  '  Fielding  is  a  murderer ! '  It  is  as 
though  she  had  forgotten  everything  else  —  father, 
mother,  Robert  Hughes,  the  wedding,  everything  — 
only  those  words,  '  Fielding  is  a  murderer!  '  I  think 
she  repeated  them  a  hundred  times !  " 

Turning  quickly  from  her,  Dave  entered  the  ad- 
joining room,  poured  out  a  glass  of  sherry  and  re- 
turning handed  it  to  her.  "  Here,"  he  said,  "  drink 
this  —  all  the  strength  has  gone  out  of  you !  " 

She  drank  the  wine  eagerly,  returned  him  the  glass, 
and  soon  a  little  color  crept  into  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  right,  the  strength  has  gone  out  of  me  — 
the  strength  to  stand  any  more !  This  decides  me  — 

167 


i68        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

I'm  going  away !  I  can't  stand  it !  I  can't,  I  can't !  " 
He  started  to  speak  but  she  raised  her  hands  and 
stopped  him.  "  I  can't,  I  tell  you,"  she  repeated. 
"Every  hour  it's  something!  Think  of  Sam  the 
other  day !  Suppose  you  had  not  been  there !  Think 
of  that  pistol  leveled  at  you  and  think,"  her  eyes  trav- 
eled about  in  horror,  "of  this!  'Fielding  is  a  mur- 
derer ! '  I  will  hear  those  words  as  long  as  I  live !  " 
She  took  an  excited  step  forward.  "  Do  you  know 
what  I  said  to  Emily?  I  denied  it!  Fielding  isn't 
a  murderer,  I  told  her,  but  an  avenger!  He  has 
wrashed  his  hands  in  blood,  but  in  doing  so  he  has 
been  an  instrument  chosen  by  God  to  prevent  the  mur- 
der of  your  purity  and  innocence,  to  save  Robert 
Hughes  from  worse  than  murder !  " 

As  she  ceased  to  speak,  ceased  flinging  out  the  im- 
passioned words,  the  very  room  seemed  to  vibrate 
with  her  voice,  and  Dave's  heart  sank  into  his  breast. 
He  knew  Page,  her  impressionability,  and  what  this 
occurrence  meant  to  her.  Oppressed  as  he  was  him- 
self, horror-struck  by  the  tragedy,  broken-hearted  at 
the  fate  of  his  dearest  friend,  the  friend  dearer  to 
him  he  felt  than  his  very  self,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
effort,  opposition,  were  useless;  that  in  spite  of  him 
the  tide  of  events  would  sweep  Page  along  into  other 
channels  and  that  he  would  sit  still  and,  as  he  had 
done  the  two  past  hours,  be  a  passive  onlooker.  A 
great  sense  of  weariness  overcame  him.  Perhaps 
Page  was  right.  For  a  moment  he  stood  before  her 
fixed  to  the  spot,  dumb,  mute,  like  a  being  tied  hand 
and  foot,  who  has  given  up  and  ceased  to  struggle. 
And  all  the  while  the  innate  sadness  of  his  counte- 
nance, the  sadness  that  the  faces  of  his  people  bore, 
the  universal  sadness  of  his  time,  was  deepening  from 


BEYOND  HIS  TENSION  169 

shadow  to  cloud.  Page  saw  this,  this  look  of  pas- 
sionate hopelessness,  and  while  it  stung  and  rebuked 
her  she  quickly  fortified  herself  against  it. 

"  I  am  going  away !  "  she  flung  out  desperately. 

;<  Yes,"  Dave  answered  absently  and  speaking  as 
one  aroused  from  deep  sleep,  "  I  know."  He  looked 
into  her  face  with  the  expression  of  one  beyond  con- 
tention. In  his  voice,  when  he  spoke  again,  there 
was  even  a  trace  of  sympathy,  tenderness,  as  though 
he  had  been  won  over  and  was  taking  her  part.  "  I 
understand  —  this  tragedy  has  been  too  much  for 
you;  I  understand." 

He  went  over  to  the  chair  he  had  vacated  when  she 
came  in  and  taking  his  seat  in  it  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

The  silence  became  sepulchral,  oppressive.  The 
moon,  escaped  again  from  the  battle  with  clouds,  was 
pouring  in  through  one  window,  the  window  through 
which  Fielding  had  leaped  to  his  doom,  and  was  ly- 
ing in  a  patch  on  the  floor.  Page  stared  at  this  patch 
of  pale  light.  Then  she  heard  a  sound  upstairs, 
started  slightly  and  listened.  It  was  the  faithful 
mulatto  girl  she  had  left  by  Emily's  bedside,  moving 
softly  about  the  room.  In  a  moment  all  was  quiet 
again. 

She  stood  still,  staring  before  her  at  nothing,  her 
wide-open  eyes  looking  into  vacancy,  her  mind  strug- 
gling to  get  possession  of  all  the  sorrow  and  misery 
that  she  was  using  to  fortify  herself  in  her  final  de- 
termination. 

Then  Dave  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met.  Page 
felt  herself  start  again  and  attempted  to  control  a 
nervousness  that  responded  to  every  sound  and 
glance.  She  tried  shifting  her  gaze  from  Dave's, 


1 70        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

but  a  strange  gleam  was   in  his  eyes,   that  held  it. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  it  seemed  to  Page  she  had 
never  seen  him  tall  like  this,  never  realized  his  height. 
He  towered  above  her  breast,  shoulders  and  head. 
He  was  dark  with  a  velvety  midnight  darkness  that 
suggested  that  the  bursting  of  a  human  thunderstorm 
was  imminent. 

"  Page,"  he  exclaimed,  the  scorn  in  his  voice  cut- 
ting the  silence  like  the  cut  of  a  sharp  knife,  "  you 
are  not  the  first  traitor !  " 

"Traitor!" 

"  Yes,"  he  approached  a  step,  "  traitor,  coward,  de- 
serter —  I  call  you  what  you  are !  " 

"  Dave !  How  do  you  dare  apply  such  words 
to  me?" 

"  Because  they  fit  you !  " 

The  gleam  in  his  eyes  changed  to  fire;  it  was  the 
first  stroke  of  lightning.  It  struck  and  scorched  her 
and  she  quailed  under  it. 

"Am  I  not  right?"  he  asked.  "Is  not  what  I 
say  true?  You  want  to  go  away!  Why?  Because 
you  want  to  escape  the  misery,  the  despair,  the  pov- 
erty, the  danger  if  you  will,  that  you  stand  in  the 
midst  of!  Such  beings  we  call  traitors!  In  our  war, 
when  a  youth,  whose  temperament  possibly  corre- 
sponding to  yours  was  overcome  by,  God  knows  what, 
for  man  can  never  realize  true  battle,  with  its  death 
cries,  its  awful  din,  its  flashing  of  bayonets,  its  dis- 
tant roar  of  cannon,  its  deafening  exploding  of  shell, 
its  sharp  repeated  rifle  shots,  its  threats,  yells,  smoth- 
ered and  uttered  oaths,  its  mad  orders,  blowing  of 
horns,  a  hundred  murders  in  one  moment,  blood  flow- 
ing, horrible  wound  gapings,  dying  shrieks  —  when 
such  a  youth,  sensitive,  terrified,  overcome  beyond 


BEYOND  HIS  TENSION  171 

endurance,  fled,  no  excuse  was  made  for  him  —  he 
was  called  a  coward,  a  deserter,  a  traitor  —  caught, 
humiliated,  reviled  before  his  comrades,  made  an  ex- 
ample of  and  shot!  What  are  you  fleeing  from? 
Your  army  in  distress  —  your  stricken  army  in  whose 
hearts  and  souls  rebellion  is  raging  and  who  at  times 
commit  desperate  deeds  such  as  Fielding  has  com- 
mitted !  I  repeat  —  I  call  you  what  you  are,  a 
traitor !  " 

"  Dave !  "  She  staggered  up  and  caught  him  by 
the  arm. 

He  freed  himself.  "  No,  let  me  speak !  Do  you 
know  what  I  found  out  just  now  when  you  entered 
this  room?  I  found  out  that  you  did  not  love  me, 
never  had  loved  me,  perhaps  never  could  love  me  or 
any  one!  What  does  a  woman  do,  in  a  crisis  like 
this,  who  loves  a  man?  What,  in  spite  of  everything, 
does  she  do?  She  flies  into  his  arms!  What  did 
you  do!  Declared  your  intention  to  run  away!  The 
love  that  you  confessed  on  that  old  porch  at  Field- 
ing's that  night  was  a  passing  emotion  wrung  out  of 
your  jealousy!  It  no  doubt  gave  you  pleasure.  All 
you  want  is  emotion  —  new  emotions!  That's  what 
you  are  stretching  out  to!  New  schemes  that  they 
may  furnish  you  with  new  emotions!  But  love! 
You  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word!  I  see 
it  all  as  clear  as  day  now,  for  I  repeat,  if  you  had 
loved  me  when  you  entered  that  door  you  would  have 
rushed  into  my  arms,  that  instinctively  moved  to  open 
to  you,  when  I  heard  your  step !  Instead  I  am  greeted 
with  the  old  cry  that  once  too  often  has  sickened  my 
hearing  —  you  are  going  away !  Ah !  It  still  sick- 
ens me!  Why  did  you  lay  your  hand  on  that  sacred 
Bible  the  other  day?  The  action  was  a  lie!" 


172        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"Dave!" 

He  threw  her  from  him  and  again  his  scorn  cut 
the  air.  "  It  probably  furnished  you  with  an  emo- 
tion!" 

She  caught  his  arm  again.     "  Dave !     Listen  to  me 

—  you  must !  " 

"No,  I  won't  listen  to  you!"  He  wrenched  his 
arm  free.  "  You  will  listen  to  me!  From  this  mo- 
ment I  will  never  again  plead  my  own  cause,  either 
in  your  or  my  own  behalf.  If  you  want  to  go  away 

—  go!     If    you    can't    stand    conditions    here,    leave 
them !     A  while  ago  I  was  afraid  of  you  —  I  almost 
joined  hands  with  you  —  but  in  one  instant  that  weak- 
ness passed,  and  I  tell  you  now  if  you  want  to  go 

—  go!" 

He  paused,  expecting  her  to  speak,  but  silenced  to 
muteness  she  merely  remained  gazing  at  him  out  of 
horror-struck  eyes,  and  he  went  on :  "  As  for  me  I 
will  remain  here,  true  to  my  birthright;  clinging  to 
my  sentiments  and  ideals,  though  murder  be  ram- 
pant!" 

She  flung  up  her  head  and  her  voice  rang  out  in 
triumph.  "  And  it's  just  such  sentiments  as  these 
that  cause  the  tragedies  that  are  driving  me  away  — 
just  such  madness!" 

He  leaned  over  and  peered  into  her  eyes.  "  And 
as  surely  as  you  live  these  sentiments  —  this  madness 
will  call  you  back !  Go  to  New  York,  plunge  into  all 
the  gayety  there,  and  with  the  lights  of  the  city  blind- 
ing you,  its  roar  deafening  you,  they  will  call  you 
back!  In  the  dark  hours  of  the  night  they  will  call 
you  back;  from  your  seat  in  the  theater  they  will  call 
you  back;  from  the  wealth  squandered  before  your 
eyes  they  will  call  you  back!  And  more!  My  love 


BEYOND  HIS  TENSION  173 

will  call  you  back!  Though  all  the  princes  and 
potentates  of  the  world  bow  before  you,  laying  their 
hearts  at  your  feet,  the  love  of  my  heart  will  oust 
them  all  and  call  you  back!  Pray  God,  Page,  it  may 
not  be  too  late!  Go!  "  he  pointed  upwards,  "  to  that 
stricken  child !  " 

Her  form  shrunk  and  without  a  word  she  turned 
and  obeyed  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

VISIONS  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW 

THE  following  morning  Emily's  father  and  mother 
arrived  in  Martin's  old  hack,  and  took  Emily  home. 
Page  accompanied  them,  seated  on  the  front  seat  be- 
side Emily,  holding  one  of  her  hands. 

Emily  was  surprisingly  quiet,  but  already  her  youth 
and  bloom  seemed  to  have  vanished.  The  little  form 
was  a  rack  that  her  clothes  drooped  on;  the  colorless 
lips  had  lost  their  beauty  lines  and  drooped  like  her 
clothing;  her  eyes  were  those  of  a  starved  animal. 
A  long  crepe  veil  that  had  belonged  to  Emily's  grand- 
mother had  been  brought  by  her  mother  and  Emily 
was  entirely  hidden  beneath  it.  The  smell  of  this  old 
veil,  that  had  been  packed  in  camphor,  sickened  Page 
and  as  the  carriage  moved  slowly  along,  visions  of 
Emily's  future  rose  before  her.  Sunday  after  Sun^ 
day  Emily  would  wear  this  historic  veil,  saturated 
with  the  tragedies  of  broken  hearts,  to  church  and 
sit  with  folded  hands  beneath  it.  And  she  would 
take  up  her  daily  life  in  the  household  to  grow  into 
such  an  old  maid  as  Page  was  only  too  familiar  with, 
the  kind  that  used  to  frighten  her  when  she  was  a 
child.  Her  awful  message  to  Fielding,  that  his  atone- 
ment to  God  would  be  never  to  look  upon  her  face 
again,  had  declared  her  future. 

Later  in  the  day  Page  left  her  to  go  to  Aunt  Con- 
stance whom  she  feared  the  tragedy  had  prostrated. 
On  her  way,  she  walked,  apparently  without  any  in- 


VISIONS  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW     175 

tention  on  her  part,  to  the  real  estate  office  and  com- 
pleted the  formalities  for  the  sale  of  her  house. 

To  Page's  relief,  Mrs.  Bartlett,  whom  she  also 
stopped  by  to  see,  accepted  the  news  as  a  relief  and 
confessed  to  Page  that  for  some  time  she  had  been 
partially  packed,  ready  to  move.  She  declared  that 
since  the  death  of  Sadie  May  she  had  found  the  place 
unendurable  on  account  of  reminders  of  her  at  every 
turn. 

She  parted  from  Page  with  a  burst  of  feeling  to 
which  Page,  in  spite  of  her  benumbed  feeling,  partly 
responded. 

"  Mrs.  Bartlett,"  she  cried,  "  as  long  as  I  live  I 
will  never  forget  how  kind  you  have  been  to  me  ever 
since  we  have  lived  under  this  little  roof  together !  " 

Mrs.  Bartlett's  shining  eyes  overflowed  with  tears. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Page,"  she  said,  "  and  if  you 
do  go  away,  if  you  feel  you've  got  to  go,  will  you 
sometimes  think  of  Sadie  May?  "  The  pressure  tight- 
ened on  Page's  hands.  "  You  won't  forget  her,  will 
you?  I  want  everybody  that  lived  in  this  house,"  the 
tears  were  streaming  now,  "  to  remember  her." 

"  Never,  Mrs.  Bartlett,"  Page  cried.  "  I  promise 
you  never  to  forget  Sadie  May!" 

As  she  passed  out  of  the  house  her  mind  reverted 
to  Dave  and  their  last  talk  on  the  little  hard  sofa. 
How  many  things  had  happened  since  that  night.  It 
might  be  a  hundred  years  ago! 

While  Page  was  pondering  upon  these  things,  Dave, 
having  parted  from  his  lifelong  friend  in  his  prison 
cell,  was  walking  thoughtfully  towards  his  home. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  he  had  been 
called  upon  by  the  Stage  Director  of  the  world  to 
play  a  part.  He  had  accepted  the  offer  from  Mr. 


176       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Meredith  to  enter  into  partnership  with  him,  and  on 
the  strength  of  it  had  told  Fielding  he  would  take  his 
case. 

There  was  a  slight  flush  on  his  pale  face  as  he 
strode  eagerly  through  the  streets  that  the  cloudless 
sun,  in  a  pale  blue  sky,  was  lighting  up  with  an  al- 
most golden  light.  He  was  so  excited  that  the  world 
about  him,  the  bright  yellow  glow,  the  delicately 
green  trees,  and  the  old  faded  homes  seemed  to  him 
a  fantastical  display  in  which  he  had  suddenly  found 
himself.  He  was  still  alive  with  the  interview  that  in 
its  tragic  intensity  had  gripped  hard  at  his  brain  and 
heart.  The  narrow  walls  of  the  cell  still  crushed  him, 
the  yellow  patch  of  sunlight  that  came  across  Field- 
ing's head  like  a  blazing  sword  and  then  shone  like 
a  false  jewel  in  a  rough  setting  on  the  whitewashed 
wall,  still  blinded  him. 

Fielding's  appearance,  that  had  at  first  shocked  him 
almost  to  speechlessness,  remained  with  him.  He  was 
like  a  startling  apparition.  Not  twenty-four  hours 
had  passed  since  he  had  unconsciously  committed  an 
awful  crime,  yet  he  was  but  a  mocking  echo  of  him- 
self. His  hair,  the  day  before  black  as  a  raven's 
wing,  was  sprinkled  with  gray;  his  dark  eyes  burned 
in  their  sockets,  a  dull  red,  and  his  tall  angular  frame, 
thin  always,  was  barely  more  than  a  skeleton.  The 
hands  that  reached  out  from  this  weird  wreck  and 
clutched  convulsively  at  him,  were  like  two  burning 
hooks.  What  was  left  of  him  was  the  old  languid 
grace  that  betrayed  itself  in  every  movement. 

A  murderer  who  moved  like  a  god  was  a  pathetic 
spectacle.  All  this  confronted  Dave,  wrenched  his 
body  and  quickened  his  heart  beats.  But  so  strange 
is  the  working  of  the  human  brain  in  moments  of 


VISIONS  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW     177 

great  stress,  always  straying  from  the  immediate  ob- 
jects that  affect  it  to  more  distant  ones,  that  it  was 
of  himself  he  was  thinking  and  how  a  man  is  led  un- 
consciously, even  against  his  own  will,  to  assume  his 
part  in  the  world.  He  tried  to  arouse  himself;  to 
make  familiar  objects  have  familiar  aspects,  but  to 
no  purpose. 

A  new  world  had  opened  to  him,  a  world  that  was 
calling  on  him  to  perform  a  part,  a  serious  part,  and 
one  that  required  any  man's  best  efforts.  He  was  to 
save  a  friend  from  death  and  he  had  no  misgivings 
about  undertaking  the  duty.  Temporary  insanity 
was  to  be  his  plea,  and  so  powerful  did  it  seem  that 
his  line  of  defense  was  but  a  tangled  net  that  re- 
quired skillful  handling.  Mentally  already  he  had 
handled  it  and  felt  no  doubt  about  the  issue.  He  was 
so  sure,  in  fact,  that  it  produced  little  excitement  in 
him.  What  stirred  him  was  that  his  time  for  action 
had  come.  He  tried  to  throw  the  thought  from  him 
but  for  the  moment  it  dominated  him  and  all  he  was 
concerned  about  or  connected  with. 

But  as  the  disturbed  needle  returns  to  the  pole,  his 
mind  reverted  to  Page.  What  effect  would  his  tak- 
ing part  in  the  world  of  affairs,  becoming  a  worker 
among  his  fellow-men,  have  on  her?  A  new  excite- 
ment burned  in  him  at  this  thought :  a  feeling  of  rest- 
lessness. How  harsh  he  had  been  the  night  before, 
when  she  herself,  in  a  highly  wrought  nervous  condi- 
tion at  being  unexpectedly  called  upon  to  figure  in  a 
terrible  tragedy,  needed  his  tenderness  —  needed  to 
be  soothed!  And  days  must  elapse  before  he  could 
see  her,  as  he  had  given  his  word  to  Fielding  to  go  at 
once  to  the  family  to  offer  them  what  help  and  com- 
fort he  could. 


• 


178       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 


As  he  opened  his  front  door,  Page  was  softly  turn- 
ing the  knob  of  the  one  that  led  to  her  Aunt  Con- 
stance's room. 

She  found  her  lying  on  the  outside  of  the  bed,  pale, 
and  as  she  had  feared,  rather  prostrated.  Page,  with 
her  thoughts  and  intentions  uppermost,  regarded  her 
as  a  silent  rebuke. 

She  walked,  deciding  with  a  sudden  contracting  of 
her  jaws  to  have  it  over,  straight  up  to  the  side  of 
the  bed. 

"  Aunt  Constance,"  she  said,  "  I  have  sold  my 
house." 

There  was  no  reply,  but  two  feeble  hands  went  out. 
Page  did  not  take  them  and  for  a  full  moment  they 
gazed  into  each  other's  eyes.  When  she  turned  away 
she  knew  that  Aunt  Constance  knew.  Page  had 
never  experienced  a  moment  quite  like  this.  She  was 
glad  it  was  over. 

She  spent  the  day  in  dutiful,  devoted  attentions. 
For  the  most  part  there  was  silence,  a  few  words 
about  the  tragedy  —  about  Emily,  and  that  was  all. 

Two  days  were  passed  like  this,  during  every  hour 
of  which  Page  was  never  once  able  to  rid  herself  of 
the  feeling  that  in  forsaking  Aunt  Constance  she  was 
acting  an  almost  criminal  part.  This  was  acute  an- 
guish to  her,  and  once,  in  a  moment  of  partial  mad- 
ness under  the  strain,  she  felt  rise  up  in  her  like  a 
viper,  anger  at  the  sweet,  frail  creature  whose  ail- 
ments, even  whose  existence,  stood  in  her  way.  This 
feeling  alarmed  Page  and  for  a  moment  she  feared 
she  might  be  developing  into  a  monster  or  a  maniac. 
That  night  when  she  was  bathing  Aunt  Constance's 
feet  some  scalding  tears,  that  her  aunt  did  not  know 
of,  dropped  upon  them. 


VISIONS  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW    179 

If  only,  she  thought,  Aunt  Constance  would  burst 
out  upon  her  as  Dave  had  done  and  call  her  a  traitor. 
If  only  she  would  demur  or  become  peevish  or  exact- 
ing like  so  many  old  sick  people  —  but  she  didn't: 
she  only  clung  to  her  with  a  passionate  tenderness 
that  was  like  a  whip-lash  upon  her,  and  followed  her 
every  movement  with  famished,  tragic  eyes.  Page 
tried  to  escape  these  passionate  imploring  eyes  or  she 
would  rub  her  hands  to  be  freed  of  the  loving  fever- 
ish touch  that  burnt  them. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  she  went  to  see 
Emily  and  before  she  left  she  arranged  with  her 
Cousin  Mary  to  board  Aunt  Constance  during  her  ab- 
sence and  begged  of  Emily  to  try  to  take  her  place. 
Emily  promised,  her  face  lighting  up  for  a  moment, 
as  in  the  sacred  task  there  might  be  salvation  for  her. 
All  was  settled  now. 

On  her  way  home  she  was  drawn  to  her  old 
house.  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  sent  around  her  things,  so 
she  supposed  she  too  had  left.  She  felt  the  desire 
to  see  just  how  things  were  and  quickened  her  steps. 
She  reached  the  spot  and  found  to  her  amazement 
that  the  house  was  already  being  pulled  down. 

The  hour  was  sundown  and  the  workmen  had 
abandoned  labor  for  the  day.  Never  had  she  seen  a 
house  demolished  as  this  one  had  been.  They  had 
torn  off  all  the  front  and  left  the  interior  standing 
cruelly  exposed.  And  they  had  also  cut  down  the 
tree,  the  beautiful  old  weeping  willow.  It  lay  pros- 
trate in  the  debris.  Some  children  were  riding  on 
the  limbs  and  cracked  branches.  It  sent  shudders 
through  her  and  she  picked  up  a  few  leaves  to  keep 
—  she  would  never  look  upon  them  except  through  a 
flood  of  memories.  There  was  a  look  of  despair  in 


180        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

her  eyes  as  she  looked  away  from  it  to  the  frontless 
house  before  her  that  her  act  had  made  grotesque  and 
ridiculous.  Somehow  the  little  parlor  mantel-piece 
standing  there  bare  and  exposed  looked  pitiful,  the 
narrow  steps  holding  fast  to  the  wall  seemed  terri- 
fied, and  the  gay  but  faded  wall  papering,  a  white 
ground  covered  with  a  profusion  of  pink  buds,  seemed 
bashful  and  ashamed  at  being  thus  exposed  to  the 
public  gaze. 

There  was  no  excuse  in  her  mind  for  this  reckless 
destruction.  She  realized  that  she  did  not  want  the 
money,  as  all  her  life  before  she  had  wanted  money, 
to  do  good  with,  to  help  those  in  need  and  bring  joy 
and  smiles  to  the  stricken,  but  to  forsake  all  these  and 
go  away  for  the  sake  of  herself  —  an  act  that  would 
cause  shame  and  pain  to  many.  But  she  knew  these 
thoughts  would  not  deter  her.  She  was  going  —  go- 
ing to  hide  away  and  bid  herself  shine  that  she  might 
see  what  she  was  as  a  detached  being  and  what  she 
might  do  in  a  new  and  larger  world.  In  that  world 
she  would  be  free  and  independent.  She  would  prob- 
ably hold  nothing  sacred  and  nothing  would  hold  her 
sacred.  The  worst  as  well  as  the  best  could  leap  to 
the  front  and  howl  aloud  if  it  would.  She  was  a 
moth  longing  for  light,  dying  for  pain-singed  wings. 
She  had  no  doubt  that  she  would  get  them  but  the 
thought  of  pain  for  her  own  sake  made  her  all  the 
more  eager.  She  stood  in  front  of  her  demolished 
house  and  by  the  side  of  her  fallen  tree,  her  feet 
among  the  bricks  and  in  the  dying  leaves  feeling  cruel 
and  selfish  but  grim  in  her  determination. 

Many  pictures  besides  the  demolished  house  and  the 
fallen  tree  rose  up.  The  whole  city,  all  the  streets, 
and  houses  and  stores  stood  up  erect  and  full  of  ques- 


VISIONS  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW     181 

tioning  before  her  half -frightened  eyes  asking  her 
why  she  was  becoming  a  deserter.  And  in  every 
door  and  out  of  every  window  a  stern  or  sweet  face 
full  of  love  and  solicitude  peered  out  asking  her  why. 
To  all  this,  and  to  all  the  people,  she  answered  irrele- 
vantly and  not  fully  understanding,  that  she  herself 
was  the  why. 

But  love  for  all  that  she  was  leaving  gushed  from 
her.  And  her  eyes  tried  to  roam  farther  than  she 
could  see.  The  children  who  had  been  playing  upon 
the  branches  of  the  fallen  tree  had  vanished  and  no 
one  was  in  view  except  a  little  boy  whom  she  knew 
by  sight  who  lived  at  the  corner.  He  was  carrying 
home  some  groceries  in  little  packages  in  his  arms. 
How  well  she  knew  the  little  form!  Maybe  she 
would  never  see  him  again.  She  watched  the  child 
until  he  had  entered  the  house  and  closed  the  door. 
Then  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  heavens  where  the  sun 
was  setting  tranquilly  in  some  burnished  clouds. 

She  looked  until  all  the  color  had  left  the  sky  and 
a  gray  quietude  had  sprung  up  about  her.  Glancing 
once  more  at  the  crippled,  helpless,  and  reproachful 
house,  she  turned  and  walked  rapidly  up  the  street. 

Before  reaching  home  Page  had  performed  another 
duty.  She  went  by  to  see  her  Cousin  Betty.  That 
interview,  that  she  dared  not  escape,  had  tried  her 
sorely,  but  it  was  also  now  of  the  past. 

She  quietly  entered  the  room  and  found  her  Aunt 
Constance  peacefully  sleeping.  This  was  a  great  re- 
lief to  her.  Ever  since  her  positive  decision  to  leave 
she  had  wanted  to  be  alone,  to  realize  it  all  and  ana- 
lyze her  feelings.  And  now  she  was  like  the  drunk- 
ard, about  to  take  his  drink  in  secret  —  the  drink  that 
had  been  withheld  from  him. 


182       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

The  evening  had  turned  cool  and  as  there  was  a 
little  chill  on  the  great  quiet  solemn  room,  she  made 
a  wood-fire  that  soon  sparkled  and  blazed,  lighting  it 
with  dancing  patches  of  light  and  shadow. 

The  days  and  nights  had  been  exhausting  and  in 
the  warmth  and  with  her  head  back  on  the  old  velvet 
chair,  she  began  to  feel  sleepy.  She  stretched, 
aroused  herself,  and  sprang  to  her  feet.  Catching 
sight  of  her  face  in  the  mirror,  she  started.  A  change 
seemed  to  have  come  over  her  features  that,  while  it 
alarmed,  fascinated  her.  She  had  always  loved 
studying  her  own  face  and  went  over  and  looked  at 
herself  for  quite  a  while  just  as  she  had  looked  at 
the  beautiful  sunset.  That  particular  sunset  and  her- 
self to-night  she  would  never  forget. 

She  began  all  of  a  sudden  and  to  her  great  surprise 
to  feel  elated,  a  wild  flighty  feeling  that  made  her 
dance  a  little,  but  very  lightly  so  as  not  to  awaken  her 
aunt.  Then,  as  though  controlled  by  a  strange  will, 
she  sang  under  her  breath  so  as  scarcely  to  be  heard 
at  all.  Then  she  fancied  she  saw  Dave's  face  peer- 
ing at  her  through  the  window.  She  shrank  back,  a 
kind  of  pain  stifled  her  joy  and  she  buried  her  face 
in  her  arms  and  cried.  Finally  she  was  again  seated 
in  the  old  chair,  thinking  of  one  afternoon  quite  a 
number  of  years  ago  now,  when  she  was  barely  es- 
caping her  childhood,  and  a  rough  boy,  with  whom 
she  had  been  playing,  caught  her,  and  before  she  could 
escape,  had  her  in  his  arms  imprinting  a  long  passion- 
ate kiss  on  her  mouth.  There  had  been  rapture  in 
her  anger  and  a  combination  of  emotions  that  she  had 
never  been  rid  of  and  that  she  seemed  to  be  experi- 
encing now.  She  was  sorry  and  glad,  happy  and 
wretched,  all  at  once,  and  angry  with  herself,  as  she 


VISIONS  OF  THE  OLD  AND  NEW     183 

had  been  with  the  boy,  and  yet  half  in  love  with  her- 
self, as  she  had  also  been,  for  the  moment  with  the 
boy.  She  was  under  the  control  of  similar  emotions. 
But  suddenly  there  was  a  clutching  at  her  heart,  a 
kind  of  spasm. 

How  still  Aunt  Constance  was!  She  was  lying  as 
motionless  as  one  dead.  Suppose  she  had  died  —  sup- 
pose her  gentle  spirit  had  slipped  away. 

Her  heart  leaped  at  the  thought  —  that  catastrophe 
would  prevent  her  departure! 

She  stole  over  and  looked  at  her,  assuring  herself 
of  the  feeble  but  regular  breathing.  But  an  awful 
agony  gripped  her.  To-morrow  night  Aunt  Con- 
stance would  be  alone!  She  sprang  lightly  to  the 
center  of  the  room  and  mentally  faced  herself. 

What  was  this  call  of  self  that  was  stronger  than 
love  —  stronger  than  duty  - —  stronger  than  all  she 
held  sacred  and  in  respect  —  stronger  than  Dave? 

Her  mind  suddenly  refused  to  act  and  she  could 
find  no  answer. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  Dave  appeared  with 
his  arms  frantically  outstretched,  and  this  caused  her 
to  break  into  low  suppressed  sobs. 

She  was  like  one  fallen  overboard  into  a  placid 
sea,  being  pulled  against  his  will  away  from  the  na- 
tive shore. 


BOOK  II 


BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  I 

A   NIGHT  ON    WHEELS 

PAGE  was  sitting  in  a  Pullman  car  for  the  first 
time  and,  in  spite  of  many  harrowing  experiences, 
was,  for  the  moment,  experiencing  no  regrets. 

She  was  feeling  the  softness  of  the  seat  she  occu- 
pied and  reveling  in  the  splendor  of  the  coach.  The 
beautiful  blue  velvet  that  ornamented  it,  the  shining 
mirrors  and  graceful  draperies,  enchanted  her,  and 
she  was  quickly  intoxicated  by  the  first  luxury  she 
had  ever  known. 

She  did  not  know  they  fitted  the  cars  up  like  this 
and  in  the  velvety  atmosphere  that  seemed  to  touch 
her,  she  felt  all  her  sorrows  slip  away. 

The  colored  porter,  who  passed  through,  seemed  to 
her  a  being  possessed  of  superior  knowledge  and,  un- 
like her,  he  was  perfectly  at  home  in  this  moving  pal- 
ace. He  was  beginning  to  make  up  the  beds  and  Page 
watched  him  with  keen  interest.  She  had  never  seen 
a  man  make  a  bed  before  and  it  astonished  her  that 
he  could  do  it  so  well.  She  hoped  hers  would  be 
the  last  bed  he  would  make;  she  would  like  to  sit  up 
all  night. 

Two  men  behind  her  were  talking.  Their  voices 
seemed  to  reach  her  through  great  space  and  she  be- 
gan to  feel  as  one  in  a  dream.  She  turned  and  looked 
at  them,  experiencing  astonishment.  They  were 

187 


i88        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

dressed  as  fastidiously  as  women  and  were  literally 
surrounded  by  their  possessions  —  valises,  canes,  um- 
brellas, books,  magazines,  etc. 

Immediately  they  vaguely  represented  the  wealth 
she  had  been  longing  to  see.  It  was  all  very  strange 
to  find  herself  moving  along,  as  it  were,  side  by  side 
with  strangers.  She  had  never  been  in  the  presence 
before  of  people  not,  in  every  way,  familiar  to  her. 
A  big  world  opened  up  that  almost  alarmed  her. 

She  turned  her  gaze  from  it  all  and  looked  a  while 
out  of  the  windows  at  the  fields  and  the  starlit  sky 
above  them,  trying  to  discover  the  different  kinds  of 
fields,  whether  corn,  or  wheat,  or  clover,  but  there 
was  no  moon  and  it  was  difficult.  When  she  looked 
into  the  coach  again  the  splendor  greeted  her  with 
redoubled  force;  the  blue  velvet  that  covered  every- 
thing was  seductively  beautiful  and  felt  more  than 
ever  delicious  to  her  fingers.  Oh,  that  she  could  go 
on  this  way,  a  part  of  all  this  splendor,  for  weeks 
and  weeks! 

A  woman  superbly  gowned  in  a  light  silk  and 
smelling  of  the  most  intoxicating  extracts  had  just 
passed  her.  She  rattled  like  the  leaves  on  a  tree  and 
walked  with  a  free,  bold,  self-confident  air.  Who 
was  she?  Where  did  she  come  from?  She  was  like 
an  unknown  plant  springing  into  existence  before  her 
eyes.  These  strange  people  starting  up  as  from  an- 
other world,  and  the  splendor  of  their  appearance, 
overpowered  her.  This  woman  traveling  in  a  light 
colored  silk  and  smelling  like  a  whole  rose  garden  had 
made  a  powerful  impression  upon  her.  She  sud- 
denly felt  small  and  insignificant  and  sank  back  in 
her  corner.  Her  mind  in  a  kind  of  terror  flew  to 
Dave.  He  did  not,  she  felt  sure,  dream  that  there 


A  NIGHT  ON  WHEELS  189 

were  such  large,  magnificent,  beautifully  dressed,  per- 
fumed women,  otherwise  he  could  never  have  placed 
her  upon  such  a  pedestal.  And  men  like  these  two 
behind  her,  with  their  composure  and  rare  quality  of 
speech  and  voice,  they  would  surely  intimidate  Dave. 

A  picture  loomed  up  before  her  eyes  of  a  forest 
where  birds  with  broken  wings  lay  prone  upon  the 
earth.  That  seemed  to  her  the  home  she  was  turn- 
ing her  back  upon.  The  sight  of  these  three  people, 
these  two  men  with  almost  painfully  well  fitting 
clothes,  and  one  woman  in  a  light  silk,  provoked  it. 
In  the  three  she  had  witnessed  more  self-confidence 
and  self-assertion  than  in  all  the  people  she  had  ever 
seen  before. 

She  felt  ashamed,  for  the  first  time,  of  her  dress, 
and  doubly  ashamed  of  all  the  worn,  ill-fitting  clothes 
of  the  men  she  knew.  Her  heart  fluttered  and  she 
wanted  to  cry  over  everything  —  every  rag,  every 
threadbare  coat,  every  worn  shoe.  She  would  have 
liked  to  raise  all  the  old,  torn,  and  tattered  flags  to 
hide  her  people  from  the  like  of  these. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  porter  coming  to  make  her 
bed.  When  she  asked  him  the  time,  he  said  it  was 
after  eleven  o'clock  and  Page  was  astonished.  It  had 
not  seemed  ten  minutes  to  her.  As  all  the  other  peo- 
ple in  the  coach  had  gone  to  bed,  she  supposed  she 
would  have  to,  and  after  a  few  minutes  she  was  be- 
hind a  curtain,  stretched  out  on  her  back,  with  wide- 
open  eyes  and  beating  heart. 

The  train  went  tearing  through  the  night.  One  of 
these  two  finely  dressed  men  was  snoring.  For  the 
rest  all  was  quietude,  except  for  the  turning  of  the 
wheels,  and  the  occasional  blowing  of  the  whistle  — 
a  low  mournful  tone  it  had  that  she  knew  she  would 


190       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

never  forget  —  and  the  sudden  flash  of  sound,  as  it 
were,  when  a  fence  or  car  on  another  track  was 
passed. 

She  slept  fitfully,  sometimes  for  an  hour  or  more, 
sometimes  for  but  a  few  minutes.  Each  time  that 
she  awoke  she  raised  her  curtain  and  looked  out  at 
the  sky,  and  on  the  vanishing  scene.  Once  or  twice 
the  stopping  of  the  car  awoke  her  and  she  saw  the 
depots  of  towns  and  cities.  Strange  voices  greeted 
her  and  the  trucks  piled  up  with  trunks  reminded  her 
anew  of  a  world  of  people  before  unconceived  by  her. 

When  she  was  dressed  in  the  morning,  she  seemed 
not  only  to  be  among  strangers  but  was  herself  also 
a  stranger.  No  one  was  talking ;  not  even  when  there 
were  several  in  a  party.  There  were  some  children 
and  they  sat  up  prim  and  demure  like  the  grown  peo- 
ple. Everything  and  everybody  was  orderly.  There 
were  many  more  people  on  the  train  than  when  it 
left  Richmond.  The  women  were  all  well  dressed 
and  looked  self-satisfied  but  bored.  The  men  were 
reading  newspapers.  It  was  the  women  who  en- 
gaged her  attention.  She  could  make  out  nothing 
about  them.  Had  they  been  encased  in  armor  their 
personality  could  not  be  more  concealed.  Who  were 
these  women,  she  pondered?  What  did  they  exist 
for?  Were  they  wives,  mothers,  or  old  maids? 
They  might  be  anything.  One  woman  who  wore  a 
scarlet  hat  and  had  black  eyes  and  a  thin  sharp  nose 
seemed  to  Page,  she  could  not  define  why,  to  have  a 
wicked  face.  Her  countenance  was  like  a  mask. 
She  turned  from  her  with  a  shudder,  but  after  a  while 
looked  at  her  again  for  a  long  while.  The  woman 
had  not  changed  her  position  and  Page  marveled  that 
people  could  remain  erect  and  motionless  so  long.  It 


A  NIGHT  ON  WHEELS  191 

puzzled  her  to  know  why  all  were  so  orderly,  sitting 
like  people  in  church  instead  of  trying  to  be  sociable 
among  themselves  as  she  had  always  seen  women  try- 
ing to  be.  The  contrast  between  these  women  and 
those  she  had  left  was  so  sharp  that  it  struck  her  in 
the  eyes  like  a  blow. 

Finally  the  train  rolled  into  Jersey  City  station  and 
as  all  the  people  got  up  and  filed  out  she  took  up  her 
little  old-fashioned  bag,  that  Aunt  Constance  had  lent 
her,  and  filed  out  too.  She  became  suddenly  so  ex- 
cited that  for  a  moment  her  brain  refused  to  act. 
She  followed  the  crowd  dazed  and  crossed  the  ferry 
like  one  in  a  trance. 

She  did  not  know  what  she  had  expected  to  behold 
on  arriving  in  New  York,  but  her  visions,  over  and 
over  indulged  in,  had  been  of  splendor.  What 
greeted  her  was  hideousness,  a  kind  of  hideousness 
that  she  never  had  seen.  The  very  blackness  of  the 
streets,  as  she  left  the  ferry,  shocked  her.  Like  a 
flash,  as  she  stepped  carefully  over  this  black  earth, 
came  visions  of  white  cobble  stones,  or  of  silver  or 
pine  tag  covered  roads  extending  through  pine  for- 
ests with  the  rich  brown  or  red  soils  of  the  fields  be- 
yond. She  saw  these  roads  turning  to  more  delicate 
shades  in  the  golden  light  or  split  asunder  by  crystals 
of  ice  that  shone  in  the  dazzling  sun. 

Her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  an  awful  roar 
that  reached  her  ears,  the  roar  it  seemed  to  her  of 
ten  thousand  lions  in  the  agony  of  strife!  Looking 
ahead  of  her,  she  saw  the  black  iron  structures  over 
the  streets  with  the  trains  tearing  like  mad  over  peo- 
ple's heads.  Tall  massive  buildings,  stone,  iron  and 
brick,  all  seemed  about  to  fall  and  crush  her.  On  the 
sidewalk,  rushed  this  way  and  that,  a  ceaseless  army 


192       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

of  men  and  women.  As  she  stood  jostled  and  pushed 
about,  with  the  cry  of  newsboys  like  the  piercing 
screeches  of  mad  birds  penetrating  her  ears;  with  the 
dull  day  about  her;  with  the  smoke  rising  and  de- 
scending from  a  thousand  tall  chimneys,  a  terrible 
impression  of  brute  strength  and  awful  heartlessness 
came  over  her.  Her  soul  cried  out  as  she  realized 
that  it  was  this  supreme  expression  of  sordid  might 
and  brute  strength  that  had  swept  down  on  their 
dream  life — 'On  a  land  of  placidity  and  picturesque 
delight,,  where  motion  was  represented  by  the  old 
packet-boat,  drawn  by  a  mule,  that  trailed  its  slow 
length  through  placid  waters,  and  where  the  captain 
might  wait  for  a  fair  woman  to  alight  and  gather  a 
handful  of  wild  flowers.  To  be  invaded  by  this! 
As  she  got  into  a  carriage  her  foot  slipped  and  her 
eyes  were  overflowing,  but  through  her  tears  she 
looked  out  fascinated  by  the  very  horrors  that  had 
appalled  her. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    LOST    SHEEP 

FOR  the  first  time  in  her  life,  after  a  confused 
drive,  Page  set  foot  in  a  hotel  and  for  the  first  time 
rode  in  an  elevator.  The  sensations  she  experienced 
and  the  rapidity  with  which  her  brain  received  im- 
pressions left  nothing  clear.  She  saw  before  her  a 
confusion  of  mirrors,  carpets,  draperies,  pictures,  and, 
always,  movement.  In  her  dazed  condition  she  saw 
no  life  in  the  movement.  People  seemed  unmindful 
of  purpose,  simply  changing  from  place  to  place.  It 
was  like  the  figures  they  danced  at  the  country  parties 
in  Virginia.  She  wondered  that  there  was  not  some- 
one at  every  corner  and  on  every  floor  of  the  hotel 
calling  figures.  She  had  a  feeling  such  as  she  once 
had  when,  with  a  party  of  girls,  she  drank,  for  the 
fun  of  it,  too  much  home-made  blackberry  bounce. 
There  was  an  excitement  in  the  very  atmosphere  that 
caused  her  to  feel  she  could  leap  into  the  air. 

Having  been  assigned  a  room,  she  took  her  seat  and 
looked  about  her,  but  almost  immediately  got  up 
and  went  over  to  the  window.  The  cars  and  vehicles 
tearing  up  and  down  and  the  crowd  of  people  made 
her  fear  that  she  might  go  mad  in  such  a  place. 

She  never  dreamed  or  conceived  of  so  many  peo- 
ple; neither  the  hosts  of  heaven  nor  all  the  armies  of 
hell  she  fancied  could  muster  so  many. 

She  stood  two  hours  at  her  window  without  mov- 
ing, looking  out  on  the  restless,  surging  mass.  Where 

193 


194       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

were  they  all  going?  Whence  had  they  come?  Had 
each  separate  thoughts?  It  was  maddening. 

Finally  the  chambermaid  came  in  with  some  tow- 
els and  she  turned  to  her,  her  face  white  as  death. 

"Where  are  all  these  people  going?"  she  inquired 
of  the  girl. 

"  \Vhere  are  they  going?  "  asked  the  maid  amazed. 

"  Yes,  do  they  rush  up  and  down  that  way  all  the 
time?" 

"  Why,  of  course;  that's  Broadway."  And  she 
laughed. 

"  I've  never  been  here  before,"  Page  explained. 
"  I'm  from  the  South  —  Virginia." 

Her  emphasis  on  the  word  "  Virginia "  appeared 
to  make  no  impression  on  the  girl,  although  Page 
thrilled  as  she  spoke  it.  Her  being  here  she  felt  made 
no  impression. 

The  girl  straightened  the  table  cover  and  went  out. 
It  had  been  the  same  when  she  had  tried  to  establish 
sympathy  between  the  cab-driver  and  herself  by  also 
telling  him  she  was  a  stranger  and  from  Virginia. 
He  did  not  even  reply  —  merely  pocketed  the  money 
she  handed  him,  touched  the  rim  of  his  hat,  and  drove 
off. 

This  unsympathetic  manner  of  the  working-people 
was  most  disturbing;  it  robbed  her  of  a  pleasant 
patronage  that  she  had  always  indulged  in.  When 
she  finally  retired  for  the  night,  her  excited  thoughts 
kept  her  from  sleeping,  and,  in  spite  of  the  delightful 
bed,  she  got  up,  went  to  the  window  again,  and  there 
on  her  knees  spent  the  better  part  of  the  night. 

It  appeared  to  her  that  the  same  people  she  had  seen 
in  the  morning  were  still  walking.  They  walked  all 
night.  At  one  time  she  thought  that  the  people  were 


THE  LOST  SHEEP  195 

stationary  and  the  sidewalks  moving;  that  they  were 
simply  being  borne  along  by  some  mechanical  con- 
trivance. Women  as  well  as  men  made  up  the  pro- 
cession. At  two  o'clock  the  moon  appeared  in  sight 
and  looked  down  on  it  all  for  an  hour.  Then  it  dis- 
appeared. The  people  never  disappeared.  A  new 
army  had  arrived;  working  men  and  working  girls. 
The  men  looked  to  her  like  lumps  of  iron,  and  the 
girls  like  starved,  frightened  birds. 

At  six  o'clock  she  went  to  bed  and  fell  asleep  with 
the  roar  still  in  her  ears.  She  slept  until  late  and  was 
barely  dressed  at  eleven  o'clock  when  a  new  chamber- 
maid entered.  She  was  a  tall  dark  haired  girl  and 
seemed  to  Page  of  a  more  sociable  turn.  She  in- 
quired of  her  immediately  where  the  other  maid  was, 
the  one  she  had  seen  the  day  before. 

"  Oh,  she's  gone,"  she  replied.  "  They're  always 
changing  here." 

"  Where  do  they  go?  "  Page  asked. 

"  Go !     They  disappear !  "   and  she  laughed. 

Page  felt  this  strangely.  You  then  saw  a  person 
to-day  and  to-morrow  that  person  disappeared.  It 
was  uncanny  —  as  though  there  was  a  big  hole  which 
swallowed  people  up. 

"  And  you  never  hear  of  them  again?  " 

"  Oh,  sometimes,  not  often!" 

Page  smiled.     "And  will  you  disappear?" 

"  I  might  if  the  old  woman  gets  cranky."  She  was 
beating  up  the  pillows. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  while  I'm  here." 

"Well,  maybe  not.     Going  to  stay  long? 

"I  would  like  to  if  I  can!  I'm  from  the  South, 
where  the  awful  war  was  fought!" 

"  The  South?"  said  the  girl,  eyeing  her. 


196       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  The  dear,  sunny  South ! "  Page  broke  in. 

"  Well,  you'll  get  along." 

Page  went  up  to  the  girl.  "Why?  Why  do  you 
say  that?  I'm  beginning  to  feel  awfully  afraid  that 
I  won't!" 

"  Why,  the  men  are  all  plumb  crazy  about  South- 
ern women." 

"Why?"  Page  asked  breathlessly. 

"  I  don't  know.  There's  two  or  three  in  this  ho- 
tel, and  they  live  swell.  One  of  'em's-  got  a  fine  turn- 
out." 

"How  do  you  know  they  are  from  the  South?" 
Page  asked. 

"  Why,  they  tell  you  the  minute  they  set  eyes  on 
you,  jest  as  you  did."  She  was  dusting  the  bureau 
now.  "  But  I've  got  so  I  can  tell  'em.  I  knew  what 
you  were  before  you  opened  your  mouth." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  And  being  from  Virginia  is 
a  little  different,"  Page  tried  to  explain  to  her,  "  bet- 
ter; you  see  Virginia  was  the  mother  of  the  other 
states." 

"  I  can  put  you  on  to  a  good  boarding  house  if  you 
like,"  was  all  the  girl  replied,  and  when  she  was  gone 
Page  sat  down  and  began  to  think. 

The  men  preferred  the  Southern  women;  several 
lived  in  this  hotel,  and  lived  swell ;  one  had  a  carriage. 

How  could  they  afford  to  live  in  a  grand  hotel  and 
live  "  swell,"  and  one  have  a  carriage? 

These  questions  tormented  her  so  that  when  the 
girl  returned  later  with  a  waste  basket  she  questioned 
her. 

"  What  do  these  Southern  women  in  this  hotel 
do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Do?     They  have  a  good  time." 


THE  LOST  SHEEP  197 

"How?" 

"  Why,  they  go  about,  to  the  theater  and  every- 
where." 

"Are  they  then  so  rich?"  inquired  Page. 

"You  don't  suppose  I  ask  them?" 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  Page  answered,  blushing. 

When  the  girl  went  out  and  the  door  closed,  she 
thought  a  long  time  about  returning  home.  A  terri- 
ble dread  had  seized  her  and  a  feeling  of  utter  incom- 
petence. 


CHAPTER  III 

DANGERS    OF    FREEDOM 

IT  had  been  Page's  intention  to  remain  one  day  in 
the  hotel  and  then  find  herself  the  cheap  small  room 
of  her  dreams. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  she  had  not  made  the 
change.  Two  things  held  her.  The  fascination  of 
the  luxury  that  surrounded  her,  and  the  fear  of  start- 
ing out. 

She  had  not  been  able  to  pen  a  line  and  still  had 
that  drunk  feeling  as  though  she  were  being  dosed 
with  strong  wine.  Her  feeling  of  undefined  alarm 
had  in  no  way  deserted  her. 

She  had  come  to  New  York  with  a  purpose  and  her 
purpose  seemed  slipping  from  her.  She  could  not 
conceive  of  herself  writing  in  a  place  where  motion 
and  noise  never  ceased.  One  day  she  joined  the  army 
of  paraders.  All  day  long,  at  intervals,  she  marched 
up  and  down  Broadway,  staring  about  her  and  into 
the  marvelous  shops,  especially  those  where  flowers 
were  sold.  The  women  and  the  flowers  resembled 
each  other ;  they  appeared  to  her  gorgeous  but  soulless. 
Several  times,  tempted,  she  bought  flowers  in  the 
street  but  the  roses  had  no  odor  and  the  violets  had 
a  rank  horrible  perfume  that  revolted  her.  Always 
they  were  wilted  by  the  morning. 

If  only  she  knew  someone  to  whom  she  could  talk 
and  tell  how  the  flowers  smelt  at  home  and  kept  fresh 
for  days !  But  she  might  walk  up  and  down  a  hun- 

198 


DANGERS  OF  FREEDOM  199 

dred  years,   she  supposed,   and  never  know  a   soul. 

Several  times  she  went  into  the  crowded  restau- 
rants simply  to  try  to  hear  what  the  people  talked 
about.  She  didn't  catch  much,  but  the  places  them- 
selves affected  her  agreeably  and  at  times  she  experi- 
enced delicious  sensations.  Her  thoughts,  she  felt, 
would  have  filled  volumes,  but  she  could  only  revel  in 
them  —  these  spontaneous  thoughts  independent  of 
the  control  of  others.  Before  she  had  always  been 
like  one  of  a  circle  holding  hands,  her  ideas  never 
wholly  her  own.  Now  she  could  think  anything  un- 
der heaven  that  she  liked  and  God  seemed  so  far 
away  that  she  was  not  afraid  of  Him.  She  had  no 
doubt  that  it  was  possible  here  to  forget  God  alto- 
gether. 

Letters  from  home  remained  unanswered.  A  pile 
of  them  lay  unopened  on  her  center-table.  She 
feared  to  be  recalled  to  attached  conditions,  and 
scarcely  dared  touch  them.  To  be  unrelated  was  like 
being  freed  of  a  tight  bandage  about  the  head.  She 
began  to  ask  herself  what  Dave  was  to  her  —  if  there 
really  was  any  Dave  or  any  home  for  that  matter. 
Had  she  simply  had  a  dream  of  an  hour  of  these 
things  and  awakened,  or  had  she  fallen  asleep  for  an 
hour.  All  the  reality  that  remained  to  her  was  the 
heavens  and  before  going  to  sleep  she  would  hold  fast 
to  the  window  sill  and  study  them  long  and  faith- 
fully. 

There  were  moments  when  this  life  of  non-respon- 
sibility was  so  intoxicating  that  she  felt  tempted  to 
remain  in  the  hotel  until  she  had  spent  all  her  money 
and  see  what  would  happen  to  her.  She  spoke  to  no 
one  except  the  chambermaids  and  the  waiters.  Any- 
thing that  suggested  an  interruption  to  her  present 


200        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

isolation,  even  God,  she  held  aloof  from.  It  was  so 
wonderful  to  revel  undisturbed  in  her  own  personality 
that  she  desired  only  herself.  She  often  saw,  with 
her  mind's  eye,  the  bricks  of  her  home  falling,  one 
by  one,  the  whole  gradually  being  leveled  to  the 
ground.  But  it  no  longer  made  any  impression  on 
her. 

Half  mad  letters  and  telegrams  came  from  Dave. 
She  paid  no  attention  to  them. 

One  morning  the  maid,  who  had  grown  quite  famil- 
iar, knocked  and  entered  at  the  same  time.  She  was 
bent  double  with  laughter  and  when  Page  inquired 
the  cause  of  her  merriment  she  controlled  her  mirth 
and  told  her  that  she  "  had  caught  her  at  it  again." 

"  Caught  who  at  what  ?  "  Page  asked. 

"  There's  a  young  lady  in  number  43  who  lives  off 
what  she  can  steal  off  the  trays  set  outside  by  people 
who  order  up." 

"  Whatf  " 

"  Yes,  and  she's  a  Southerner !  She  says  she  comes 
from  Tennessee  and  she  is  pretty  too,  only  she  looks 
so  starved.  You've  seen  her,  haven't  you;  that  young 
girl  with  the  big  scared  eyes  and  the  changed  hair  ?  " 

Page  had  seen  such  a  girl  prowling  cat-like  about 
the  halls  and  sitting  listlessly  at  times  in  the  parlors. 

"  What  did  you  say  she  does?"  she  asked  puzzled. 

"  Why,  she  lives  in  a  hotel  because  she  says  she 
can't  stand  a  boarding  house,  that  she's  bound  to 
have  elegance  around  her,  and  she  steals  off  the  hall 
trays  before  the  waiters  take  them  down." 

"Steals  what?" 

"  Anything  she  can,  anything  that's  left.  A  roll, 
or  potato,  or  cold  chop,  anything !  She  knows  I  know 
it  too." 


DANGERS  OF  FREEDOM  201 

Page  felt  herself  pale.  "Don't  say  that!"  she 
cried.  "It's  too  horrible.  Is  she  so  poor?" 

"Poor!     She's  starving!" 

"  Poor  creature !  "  Page  cried,  tears  gushing  to  her 
eyes. 

"  Poor  creature?  Why  don't  she  go  and  get  her- 
self a  room  in  a  boarding  house?  She  can  get  room 
and  board  for  what  she  pays  here  for  the  room  alone. 
She  says  she's  got  to  have  elegant  surroundings !  " 
The  maid  repeated  this,  laughing.  As  Page  looked 
upon  her  coarse,  red  face  and  well-fed  body,  she  con- 
trasted her  with  the  little  famished  soul  whose 
startled  eyes  had  met  hers  several  times,  and  who 
probably  feared  that  possibly  she  also  had  detected 
her  thefts. 

"  It's  true,  Annie,"  she  replied ;  "  you  can't  under- 
stand it,  but  it's  true;  some  Southern  women  can't 
live  without  luxuries.  I  know  in  Richmond,  a  Mrs. 
Burwell  — " 

"  Well,  maybe  they  can't."  the  girl  interrupted, 
"  but  when  they  fall  that  low  they  fall  lower,  and 
I've  told  her  so." 

The  girl  left  the  room  and  Page  fell  into  a  trance. 
Pride  and  the  difficulty  of  adjustment  to  new  and 
sordid  conditions  had  caused  this  poor  girl  to  pur- 
chase her  existence  in  congenial  surroundings  at  the 
expense  of  the  last  vestige  of  self-respect. 

The  little  startled,  pathetic  face,  the  thin,  almost 
emanciated,  form  and  tiny  bird-like  hands,  little  thiev- 
ing hands,  rose  before  her.  The  girl,  this  famished 
girl,  without  self-respect,  was  the  victim  of  luxury  to 
which  she  was  born,  which  had  descended  to  her 
through  generations,  and  of  which  she  had  been  ruth- 
lessly robbed.  And  what  was  the  difference  between 


202        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

that  girl  and  herself?  She  hadn't  stolen  from  the 
trays.  Possibly  that  was  all.  Perhaps  the  girl 
didn't  at  first;  perhaps  she  didn't  for  a  long  time; 
perhaps  it  was  only  when  her  money  was  giving  out! 
Oh,  what  a  horrible  thing  —  what  a  pitiful  thing! 
She  was  quite  sure  now  that  neither  she  nor  any  one 
could  dream  what  they  might  come  to. 

She  would  call  Annie,  find  out  that  boarding  house, 
and  move  at  once. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SKY-LIGHT  ROOM 

THE  following  day  she  moved  to  the  boarding 
house  the  chambermaid  had  recommended  and  discov- 
ered that  it  was,  on  first  sight,  quite  as  handsome  as 
the  hotel.  This  was  a  great  surprise.  Boarding 
houses  that  she  had  seen  in  Richmond  were  all 
wretched  affairs  —  places  of  refuge  for  the  despair- 
ing. This  boarding  house  was  imposing.  A  large 
brown-stone  front  house  with  handsome  lace  curtains 
at  the  parlor  windows;  a  solemn,  important  looking 
hall,  and  innumerable  rooms  of  all  descriptions. 

She  climbed  the  four  flights  of  stairs  to  the  only 
vacant,  single  room  that  could  be  offered,  in  elated 
spirits.  This  room  was  in  the  center  of  the  hall,  the 
hall  itself  being  covered  by  a  fine  glass  dome,  and 
was,  what  she  had  never  seen  before,  a  sky-light  room. 
There  were  no  windows  on  the  sides,  and  the  light 
and  air  came  in  from  above.  There  was  a  blue  cur- 
tain that  she  could  pull  backwards  and  forwards  to 
admit  or  shut  out  the  sun.  The  furniture  was  not 
handsome;  it  had  the  look  of  having  finally  landed 
there  after  hard  tribulation,  just  as  Page  had.  Her 
little  bed,  after  the  fine  one  in  the  hotel,  looked  prim 
and  uninviting. 

The  hostess  informed  her  that  this  room  was 
rented  mostly  to  gentlemen  who  simply  wanted  a  place 
to  sleep,  but  that  if  it  suited  her,  she  could  have  it 

303 


204       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

for  seven  dollars  a  week.  This,  she  declared,  was 
very  cheap,  but  she  supposed  Page  meant  to  be  per- 
manent. 

Page  decided  that  it  did  suit  very  well  and  assured 
Mrs.  Nesbit  that  she  was  very  thankful  to  have 
found  it. 

What  a  relief  it  was  to  know  that  her  three  meals 
a  day  were  arranged  for.  A  new  life  would  begin 
for  her,  and  shut  up,  as  in  a  prison,  she  hoped  to  be- 
gin to  write!  To  this  outburst  Mrs.  Nesbit  made  no 
reply.  She  was  examining  a  tear  in  the  carpet  which 
she  said  would  be  attended  to  and  which  Page  as- 
sured her  made  not  the  least  difference,  begging  that 
she  would  not  give  it  a  thought. 

When  her  hostess,  for  Page  so  styled  her,  had  re- 
tired, she  took  her  seat  on  the  side  of  her  little  bed 
and  looked  about  her. 

Voices  reached  her  from  the  adjoining  room ;  cigar 
smoke  came  through  the  transom  and  the  sound  of 
a  piano  being  played  on  the  floor  below  greeted  her 
ear.  It  was  as  though  she  had  entered  a  new  world 
and  shut  the  door  on  the  old  one.  She  lay  down  on 
her  little  bed  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  patch  of  blue 
sky  that  looked  down  on  her  from  the  sky-light. 
Somehow  since  she  had  been  in  this  little  room  she 
seemed  to  be  the  only  human  being  in  the  world,  a 
human  being  utterly  alone  who  had  dreamed  of  peo- 
ple and  things. 

As  though  to  deny  this,  Dave  came  up  more  real 
than  she  had  ever  beheld  him.  It  irritated  her. 
Why  could  she  not  shut  Dave  out  of  her  mind?  It 
was  as  though  he  were  trying  to  control  her  through 
all  this  space.  There  came  over  her  suddenly  mo- 
mentary weariness  that  lasted  until  someone  com- 


THE  SKY-LIGHT  ROOM  205 

menced  singing  downstairs,  some  woman  with  a  clear 
strong  voice.  Page  had  never  heard  such  a  voice,  or 
such  singing.  It  was  as  though  a  human  frame  held 
a  captured  angel  who  was  pouring  forth  a  song.  Who 
was  this  wonderful  singer?  Perhaps  some  visitor 
and  she  would  never  see  her  —  never  know  who  she 
was.  The  voice  would  cease  and  that  would  be  the 
end. 

That  was  what  she  could  not  get  used  to  —  so  many 
thousands  of  people  she  didn't  know  and  never  would 
know,  who  had  lived  all  the  while  she  had,  existing 
all  apart  from  her. 

If  someone  sung  at  home  she  knew  who  it  was, 
just  who  gave  her  music  lessons,  all  the  stages  of  her 
progression,  and  it  was  not  so  interesting,  not  so  al- 
luring; the  element  of  mystery  was  lacking.  At  last 
the  voice  ceased  and  everything  was  still  again. 

The  room  was  growing  dark;  drowsiness  stole  over 
her  and  she  fell  asleep.  She  must  have  slept  very 
soundly  for  she  did  not  awake  during  the  afternoon. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  maid  knocked  and  told  her 
she  would  be  late  for  dinner.  She  rose,  feeling  dull 
and  stupid,  scarcely  knowing  where  she  was  and  looked 
about  her. 

It  was  a  strange  sensation  to  find  herself  in  a  little 
square  windowless  room  with  the  moon  shining 
straight  down  on  her  head.  She  looked  up  at  it  and 
then  again  about  her.  By  the  light  from  the  hall 
transom,  she  could  distinguish  objects  clearly.  Pass- 
ing her  hand  across  her  tumbled  head  without  arrang- 
ing her  toilet,  she  descended  the  stairs  timidly. 

At  the  dining-room  door  a  flood  of  light  burst  into 
her  face  and  she  stopped  embarrassed.  She  had  no 
idea  of  seeing  such  a  crowd  of  people.  There  were 


206       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

from  forty  to  fifty  persons  of  all  kinds  and  descrip- 
tions assembled,  among  them  men  and  women  in 
evening  dress. 

Several  waitresses  were  in  attendance.  Knives  and 
forks  and  dishes  rattled  from  a  room  somewhere  in 
the  rear.  Mrs.  Nesbit  appeared  from  this  rear  room 
with  a  flushed  face,  led  her  in,  seated  her  at  a  center 
seat  of  the  large  table  that  occupied  the  middle  of  the 
room  and  formally  introduced  her. 

"  Miss  Warwick,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  said. 
After  a  glance  or  two  at  her,  Page  seemed  to  be  for- 
gotten and  conversation  went  on  unbrokenly  as  her 
soup  was  placed  before  her. 

So  this  was  a  New  York  boarding  house!  Cer- 
tainly she  had  never  before  seen  anything  so  daz- 
zlingly  brilliant,  and  not  a  person  but  who  appeared 
boldly  at  ease  except  herself.  And  the  dinner  itself! 
What  an  elaborate  display. 

Page  had  noticed  over  by  the  window  a  small  va- 
cant table,  and  was  half  wondering  who  had  the 
honor  of  a  table  to  him  or  herself,  when  suddenly  a 
gentleman,  so  like  her  Cousin  Edmund  that  she  actu- 
ally started,  entered  the  doorway. 

He  was  a  fair  man  of  about  sixty,  of  pink-and- 
white  complexion,  rather  corpulent,  faultlessly  dressed, 
and  wore  a  white  rosebud  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

The  whole  dining-room  said,  "  Good-evening,  Col- 
onel," in  a  chorus,  but  the  Colonel,  who,  Page  noticed, 
walked  unsteadily,  only  waved  his  hand,  bowed 
slightly,  and  asked  in  a  soldierly  fashion  of  one  of 
the  waitresses  where  Mrs.  Nesbit  was. 

"  In  the  kitchen,  sir,"  the  girl  replied. 

"  Tell  her  to  come  here !  "  the  Colonel  then  com- 
manded imperatively. 


THE  SKY-LIGHT  ROOM  207 

"  She's  busy  with  the  carving,  Colonel." 

"  Tell  her  to  come  here !  "  repeated  the  Colonel 
slowly  and  with  emphasis. 

"  That's  Colonel  Beverly,"  an  old  lady  whispered 
to  Page.  "  He's  been  boarding  with  Mrs.  Nesbit  for 
nine  years !  " 

"Yes?"  Page  answered  with  great  interest. 

"  He's  a  Virginian,  and  he  thinks  he  owns  the  whole 
place."  And  she  whispered :  "  He's  a  pretty  hard 
drinker.  Do  you  see  that  one  over  there  opposite 
you?  "  she  added. 

"That  grave  looking  man?"  Page  asked. 

"  Yes.  Well,  he's  been  here  ten  years.  There's 
great  rivalry." 

"He's  not  a  Virginian?"  Page  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  and  the  old  lady  whispered  again,  "  he's 

from    Vermont.      He's    the    editor    of .  "      She 

named  a  conspicuous  paper. 

"  Oh !  "     Page  stared  at  the  gentlemen. 

In  the  meantime  the  Colonel  was  still  clamoring 
for  Mrs.  Nesbit,  who  finally  entered  rather  meekly 
and  threw  an  apron  over  her  hand. 

"Did  you  send  for  me,  Colonel?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  did ! "  answered  the  Colonel 
pompously. 

"Well,  Colonel?" 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,  madam !  " 

Mrs.  Nesbit  shifted  her  position. 

"  I've  been  in  your  house  for  ten  years,  madam, 
haven't  I?" 

"Nine,  Colonel,"  said  the  Vermonter. 

"Well,  then,"  and  the  Colonel  glared,  "nine;  I've 
been  in  this  house  nine  years,  haven't  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Colonel." 


208        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  And  during  that  time  you've  never  heard  me  tell 
a  lie,  have  you?  " 

A  young  man  over  at  a  corner  table  whistled,  and 
the  Colonel  turned  ferociously,  "Well,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,  Colonel." 

"  Oh,  do  sit  down  and  have  your  dinner,  Colonel," 
said  the  old  lady  at  Page's  side. 

The  Colonel  bowed  very  low  to  her.  "  With  all 
due  deference  to  you,  madam,  when  a  question  has 
been  settled.  Nine  years ;  is  that  right,  Mr.  Dalton  ?  " 

"  Quite  so,  sir,"  said  the  editor  from  Vermont. 

"Well,  then,  Mrs.  Nesbit,  in  all  that  time,  those 
nine  years,  have  I  ever  had  a  decent  mint  julep  in  the 
City  of  New  York?" 

"  I  never  heard  you  say  so,  Colonel." 

"  Never  heard  me  say  so!     Have  I  ever  had  one?  " 

"  No,  Colonel." 

"  Very  well,  madam ;  thank  you.  That  is  all." 
And  the  Colonel  took  his  seat. 

During  this  little  scene  conversation  was  only  partly 
arrested.  People  were  talking  on  various  subjects. 
Card  parties  were  being  arranged.  Some  were  hurry- 
ing the  waitresses  because  they  were  going  to  the  thea- 
ter, and  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  dazed  and  confused, 
Page  sat  looking  on,  trying  to  take  it  all  in. 

In  spite  of  her  efforts  to  shut  her  out,  poor  little 
Sadie  May  kept  cropping  up.  She  felt  irritated  at 
this;  it  seemed  so  silly.  The  vision  remained,  how- 
ever, as  well  as  the  little  house  falling  to  pieces,  and 
the  old  tree  that  she  supposed  had  long  since  been 
carted  away. 

She  sat  through  it  all  until  they  brought  her  her 
little  cup  of  black  coffee,  and  then,  as  she  had  seen  the 
others  rise  informally  and  leave  the  table,  she  did  so, 
glad  to  escape. 


CHAPTER  V 

BOARDING  HOUSE  LIFE 

THE  moonlight  had  gone  when  Page  reached  her 
room,  and  she  could  see  half  a  dozen  beautiful  stars 
shining  down. 

She  thought  ,she  would  like  to  tell  Dave  of  this  lit- 
tle patch  of  the  heaven  that  she  could  look  up  at  and 
see  any  moment  if  she  chose,  and  was  suddenly  stung 
by  the  consciousness  of  how  she  had  been  neglecting 
those  at  home. 

Then  she  fell  to  musing  upon  all  she  had  seen  and 
heard  downstairs  and  all  she  was  experiencing.  She 
thought  how  wonderful  her  life  was  becoming,  how 
inexplicable  and  marvelous  it  was  for  her  to  be  here 
in  this  dazzling  place.  And  how  delightful  that  there 
was  someone,  here  from  Virginia.  Oh!  How  she 
wanted  to  speak  out  and  tell  the  Colonel  she  would 
make  a  mint  julep  for  him!  She  was  interrupted  in 
these  pleasant  thoughts  by  a  light  tap  on  her  door. 
To  her  cheery  "  Come  in  "  her  old  lady  neighbor  en- 
tered. 

"  I  thought  I  would  just  run  in  first  to  ask  how 
you  were  getting  along,  and  see  if  I  could  borrow 
some  matches," 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Page,  cordially.  ''Won't 
you  take  a  seat?  " 

"  Perhaps  you're  tired  out  and  want  to  go  to  bed?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  fell  asleep  before  dinner.     I  was  tired 

when  I  got  here  to-day!  " 

209 


2io       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  You're  a  Southerner,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  Virginian."     It  would  come  out. 

"  Well,  I'm  from  Indiana." 

Page  laughed. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  but  Indiana  and  all  such  places 
have  been  so  unreal  to  me  that  to  meet  someone  who 
was  really  born  there  and  to  find  her  a  real  human  be- 
ing surprised  me !  "  It  was  so  delightful  to  be  talk- 
ing to  someone.  "  Oh !  Pardon  me !  "  she  rambled 
on,  "  I  have  funny  ideas  sometimes.  Do  you  know 
that  Vermont  is  simply  to  me  a  green  spot  of  one 
shape  and  Indiana  a  pink  spot  of  another  on  the  map 
of  America  ?  " 

The  old  lady  peered  at  Page.  "  How  did  you  hear 
about  this  house  —  any  one  send  you  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  chambermaid  at  the  hotel  told  me ! 
She  said  she  had  lived  here  two  years,"  Page  an- 
swered. 

"  What  was  her  name?  " 

"  Annie." 

"  Oh,  there  have  been  dozens  of  Annies.  They're 
all  alike.  Do  you  think  you  will  like  it  here  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  do.     It  seems  magnificent  to  me." 

"  Magnificent ! "  The  old  lady  looked  aghast. 
"Did  you  take  beef?" 

"  No,  they  brought  me  chicken,  I  think." 

"  Well,  that  may  be  why  you  think  it  magnificent. 
If  you  had  had  my  piece  of  beef  you  might  have  had 
a  different  impression." 

This  all  seemed  very  funny  to  Page,  and  she 
laughed  again  merrily. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  would  have  thought  of  it,"  she 
replied. 


BOARDING  HOUSE  LIFE  211 

"  Going  to  be  long  here?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so." 

:<  You've  got  the  sky-light  room,"  looking  around 
her  little  room,  "  haven't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  really  like  it.  Why,  I  can  just  sit 
and  look  at  the  sky  all  day  and  night  too,  if  I  like." 

"Look  at  the  sky  through  that  little  hole?  Well, 
you  Southern  people  are  funny!  We  generally  have 
about  a  dozen  in  the  house,  but  there's  nobody  but  the 
Colonel  now." 

"  Is  that  all?  "  Page  asked. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  soon  be  in  hot  water  like  the  rest 
of  them!  Now  see  here,  my  dear  —  what's  your 
name?  " 

"  Warwick." 

"  Well,  Miss  Warwick,  I've  been  living  in  board- 
ing houses  for  thirty  years,  and  my  advice  to  you  is 
to  keep  your  mouth  shut;  even  when  you  eat  keep 
your  mouth  shut!  " 

"  Oh,  I  will,"  Page  laughed. 

"  They'll  try  to  drag  you  in." 

"Will  they?" 

"  And  if  they  do,  give  it  to  them." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  wouldn't  be  equal  to  them." 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  Southerners;  all  you've  got  to  do 
is  to  get  you  mad.  Did  you  say  you  could  lend  me 
some  matches  ?  " 

"  Certainly."     Page  got  her  some. 

"  Well,  good-night.  We're  on  the  same  floor. 
I'm  22.  If  you  want  anything  just  call  on  me." 

Page  opened  the  door  for  this  strange,  gossipy  lit- 
tle lady,  and  saw  her  toddle  off  to  her  room.  Just  as 
she  was  closing  it  the  landlady  appeared  at  the  head 
of  the  steps. 


212        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Miss  Warwick;  I  was  just  com- 
ing up  to  speak  to  you." 

Page  waited. 

"  Has  old  Miss  Jenkins  been  in  to  see  you?  "  she 
asked,  entering. 

"  An  old  lady  has  been  in,  yes." 

"  Found  out  your  name,  where  you  were  from  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Page  replied. 

"  Well,  she  does  that  to  everybody  who  arrives. 
Now  if  you  value  your  life,  Miss  Warwick,  don't  get 
in  with  her.  I  don't  like  to  discuss  my  boarders,  but 
that  old  creature  is  a  holy  terror.  She  gives  me  more 
trouble  than  the  whole  house,  and  that's  saying  a  good 
deal,  for  I  have  some  pretty  troublesome  ones." 

"  I  am  sure  you  must  have,"  said  Page,  sympathetic- 
ally." I  felt  awfully  sorry  for  you  when  the  Colonel 
questioned  you  so." 

"  Oh,  the  Colonel,  nobody  minds  the  Colonel ;  he's 
just  like  a  big  baby.  Everybody  worships  him.  He 
has  his  failings,"  and  Mrs.  Nesbit  turned  an  imag- 
inary glass  to  her  lips,  "  but  as  I  said,  nobody  minds 
him.  Ah,  if  only  they  were  all  like  the  Colonel,"  and 
Mrs.  Nesbit  sighed. 

"  I  hope  7  won't  give  you  any  trouble,  Mrs.  Nes- 
bit ! "  Page  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  you  will ;  but,  you  won't 
mind  my  saying  it,  I  hope,  Miss  Warwick,  the  whole 
fact  of  the  matter  is  I  am  skittish  about  Southerners, 
and  especially  Southern  girls." 

"Why?"  asked  Page,  surprised. 

"They're  apt  to  fly  the  track,"  and  Mrs.  Nesbit 
shook  her  head. 

"  Fly  the  track?  "  Page  repeated. 

"  Not  that  they  do  so  much  real  harm,  but  they 


BOARDING  HOUSE  LIFE  213 

don't  always  behave  like  ladies,  and  that's  the  real 
truth." 

Page  looked  amazed.  "Why,  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing!  "  she  half  gasped. 

"  They  say  New  York  turns  their  heads,"  said  Mrs. 
Nesbit  sadly,  "  and  I  suppose  it's  true.  Something 
does.  You  see  they're  pretty,  and  they  know  how  to 
entertain  the  men  with  nonsense.  And  they  take  easy 
to  drinking." 

"Drinking!"  Page  gasped. 

"  I'm  only  telling  you,"  Mrs.  Nesbit  went  on. 
"  I've  seen  scores  of  them  go  to  pieces  since  I've  been 
keeping  boarding  houses  in  this  street ;  sweet  girls,  too. 
You  see  the  whole  trouble  is  they  not  only  don't  mean 
any  harm,  but  when  they  arrive  here  they  don't  know 
any,  and  they  can  be  led  off;  even  the  Colonel  gets 
led  off.  But  it's  different  with  a  man.  Well,  I  must 
be  going.  I'm  tired  out.  I'm  always  tired  for  that 
matter,  but  there's  one  thing  I  long  since  told  my 
Maker,  Miss  Warwick,  and  that  was  that  I  didn't  hold 
myself  responsible  for  Southern  girls  who  came  to 
board  in  this  house.  It  may  not  be  right,  but  it's 
true.  Why,  you  can't  any  more  hold'm  than  you  can 
rabbits.  Have  you  everything  you  want  ?  "  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"  Thank  you,  everything." 

"  Well,  good-night." 

"  Good-night."  Page  caught  her  by  the  sleeve. 
"  Mrs.  Nesbit,"  she  pleaded  hesitatingly,  "  don't 
think  that  way  about  the  Southern  girls  under  your 
roof!  Please  don't!" 

Mrs.  Nesbit  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Don't  you  know  —  don't  you  see,  it's  the  war, 
the  awful  war  that's  thrown  us  on  the  world?" 


214       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Page  exclaimed.     "  Don't  wash  your  hands  of  us !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  stay  home  and  fight  it  out  there  ?  " 
Mrs.  Nesbit  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Page  answered  guiltily,  and 
flushed. 

"  Well,  you  ought  to.  Good-night.  Let  me  know 
if  you  want  anything." 

Page  stood  still  watching  her  depart,  feeling  fool- 
ish and  regretting  her  betrayal  of  emotion.  At  home 
any  woman  to  whom  she  had  thus  appealed  would 
have  folded  her  in  her  arms.  She  felt  distinctly  as 
she  turned  into  her  room  that  she  was  a  boarder  in  a 
New  York  boarding  house,  and,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  the  necessity  of  controlling  and  hiding  her 
feelings. 

She  wasn't  sleepy,  so  she  sat  down  again  and  looked 
about  her.  Her  trunk  had  been  put  in  her  room  while 
she  was  at  dinner.  It  stared  at  her  and  she  kept  read- 
ing her  name,  "  Page  Warwick,  Richmond,  Vir- 
ginia." 

She  looked  up  at  the  sky  but  it  no  longer  interested 
her.  The  moon  was  gone  and  a  dark  cloud  had  cov- 
ered the  stars.  Suddenly  she  felt  very  lonely.  A 
calm  settled  upon  her  that  was  worse  than  the  intoxi- 
cated feeling  she  had  experienced  in  the  hotel.  All 
excitement  had  died  out  of  her,  and  she  longed  for 
sympathetic  companionship  if  only  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. She  looked  up  at  the  dark  hole  above  her 
head  and  indulged  in  her  old  dream  of  a  lover  sud- 
denly appearing.  If  only  a  pair  of  merry  eyes  would 
look  down  upon  her  how  happy  she  would  be.  And 
then  if  hands  would  be  extended  and  she  could  be 
dragged  up  on  the  roof  with  the  wind  blowing  and 
the  black  clouds  moving  about.  And  then  suppose 


BOARDING  HOUSE  LIFE  215 

—  just    suppose  —  she    would    find    it    was    Dave! 

Presently  a  party  of  men  passed  her  door  and  pretty 
soon  she  heard  the  shuffling  and  playing  of  cards  and 
the  rattle  of  poker  chips.  This  kept  up  like  an  ac- 
companiment to  her  thoughts  and  the  cigar  smoke  that 
came  in  her  room  caused  her  a  little  excitement. 

She  finally  went  to  bed,  a  bare  suspicion  of  the  im- 
mensity of  things  outside  of  the  realm  of  familiarity 
pleasantly  disturbing.  She  was  conscious  of  an  enor- 
mous, unconcerned  world,  grotesquely  controlled  by 
a  god  or  a  devil,  she  was  not  sure  which. 

Back  of  it  lay  Virginia,  still  bleeding,  devastated 
and  desolate,  but  proud  and  serene.  Her  eyes  lin- 
gered upon  the  picture,  fascinated;  but  she  was  quite 
content  that  the  picture  lay  far  distant. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WET   BLANKETS 

THE  following-  morning  Page  entered  the  dining- 
room  late  for  the  breakfast  hour. 

Fifty  or  more  boarders  had  already  breakfasted; 
the  glamour  of  the  evening  meal  was  dispelled,  and  the 
table-cloths  were  far  from  spotless. 

A  few  people,  mostly  women,  were  breakfasting. 
In  their  negliges,  with  their  cosmetics  and  languid 
mannerisms,  they  appeared  to  Page  very  attractive. 
A  particular  woman,  who  had  caught  her  attention 
the  evening  before  by  a  somewhat  resplendent  person- 
ality, stared  at  her  once  or  twice. 

This  woman,  whose  manner  was  aggressively  posi- 
tive, surprised  Page  by  her  irritability.  She  spoke 
sharply  to  the  waitress  and  made  an  unusually  caustic 
and  sarcastic  reply  to  a  weak-eyed,  weak-voiced  fe- 
male, who  timidly  addressed  her.  Her  rather  harsh 
voice  had  grated  upon  Page's  ear  unpleasantly. 

There  was  a  certain  coarseness  too  about  her  that 
Page  resented,  but  the  marvelous  brown  eyes,  strong 
white  teeth,  and  richly  colored  lips,  were  dazzling  and 
captivating. 

In  sharp  contrast  to  the  others  present,  she  was  the 
perfection  of  neatness,  held  herself  erect  and  was 
smartly  gowned  for  the  street.  Her  gloves,  a  hand- 
bag, and  a  pile  of  letters  were  beside  her  plate. 

"  I'm  from  the  West,"  she  announced,  as  the  wait- 
ress retired  and  she  caught  Page's  eye,  "  and  when  I 
give  orders  I  like  to  see  people  move!  " 

216 


WET  BLANKETS  217 

Page  laughed.  "  It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  "  they 
are  flying  all  the  time !  It  makes  me  quite  dizzy." 

"Flying!  In  this  place?  Why,  there  isn't  a 
boarding  house  in  New  York  where  they  have  such 
poor  service.  You  give  an  order  and  the  servant 
takes  ten  minutes  to  turn  around  to  start  off  with  it. 
The  reason  is  that  the  place  is,  half  the  time,  filled 
up  with  a  lot  of  lazy  Southerners." 

"  I'm  a  Southerner!  "  Page  replied  quickly. 

"  You  don't  for  an  instant  suppose  I  didn't  know 
it,  do  you?"  The  woman  laughed.  "You  South- 
ern people  carry  placards  around !  " 

"  We  are  not  ashamed  of  who  we  are!  "  Page  re- 
torted. 

"Of  course  not!  You  glory  in  yourselves  and 
whatever  you  do !  " 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  good  deal  about  us!  "  Page 
returned  curtly. 

"  I've  seen  enough  of  you,"  the  woman  answered 
unmoved.  "  What  are  you  girls  all  piling  up  here 
for,  anyway?  Didn't  they  leave  you  any  men  there 
at  all?" 

Page  stared  at  her  amazed.  "  What  you  say  sounds 
rather  shocking,"  she  replied. 

"Oh!  Nonsense!  What  are  you  doing  here?" 
As  Page  hesitated  she  went  on :  "I  wouldn't  ask  you, 
but  I  know  the  very  last  one  of  you  likes  to  tell  every- 
thing about  herself  from  the  name  of  her  great-great- 
grandfather, down  to  what  she  had  for  breakfast,  to 
everybody  she  meets." 

"  I  came  here  to  pursue  a  literary  career,"  replied 
Page  with  dignity. 

"  Oh !  "  the  lady  returned  with  a  comprehensive 
glance.  "Alone?"  she  added  pointedly. 


218        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  Entirely,"  said  Page,  whose  cheeks  had  flushed. 

"  I  wish  I  could  color  up  as  you  do,"  remarked  the 
woman  carelessly. 

"  I  wish  I  didn't! "  emphasized  Page  hotly. 

"  Oh,  it's  a  curable  disease !  New  York  is  medi- 
cine for  that  and  similar  Southern  ills."  She  laughed, 
gathered  up  her  gloves  and  bag  and  left  the  room. 

"  What  is  the  character  of  your  literary  work,  Miss 
Warwick?"  asked  the  editor,  who  had  been  scanning 
her  critically  during  her  conversation. 

"  I'm  writing  a  novel  of  the  South,  sir,"  Page  an- 
swered, her  blush  deepening,  "  a  novel  of  Virginia." 

He  smiled  an  indulgent  smile. 

"  A  love  story  ?  "  he  asked. 

Page,  who  thought  she  had  never  seen  such  clear, 
searching  eyes,  gave  vent  to  a  little  nervous  laugh. 

"  Oh,  no!  "  she  exclaimed,  "  it's  something  far  more 
serious.  I  hardly  think  you  could  call  it  a  ro- 
mance at  all,  although,  of  course,  it  contains  a  love 
story." 

"  I  see." 

"  Properly  speaking,"  Page  answered,  encouraged 
by  a  smile  from  the  Colonel  and  slightly  flattered  by 
the  attention  of  the  table,  "  my  novel  is  a  series  of 
pen-pictures  of  a  period  in  the  history  of  my  people 
that  I  think  ought  to  prove  most  interesting!  " 

"Yes?"  Mr.  Dalton  was  breaking  his  eggs  and 
didn't  look  up. 

"  You  see,"  Page  exclaimed  somewhat  vehemently, 
"  they  are  put  down  by  an  eye-witness  and  with  the 
heart's  blood !  " 

Mr.  Dalton  returned  his  eggs  to  the  kitchen  as  too 
hard  and  then  gave  her  his  attention. 

"  The  public  is  heartless,  Miss  Warwick,"  he  said. 


WET  BLANKETS  219 

"  It  doesn't  care  how  much  blood  is  spilt  in  an  effort, 
but  what  kind  of  splashes  the  blood  makes." 

Page's  eyes  flashed.  "  I  understand  that,"  she  re- 
plied, "of  course!  But  don't  you  think  that  the 
splashes  that  I  describe,  the  after  effects  of  war,  all 
the  horrors  surrounding  the  survivors  of  war,  should 
be  interesting?  " 

"  Not  necessarily." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Page  asked  eagerly,  and 
bending  forward  over  her  plate. 

"  That  literary  matter  depends  greatly  upon  how 
it  is  handled,  how  it  is  presented  to  the  reader." 

"Yes?"  Page  asked. 

"  There  may  be  purely  personal  pictures  not  calcu- 
lated to  inspire  interest  in  any  one,  except  those  al- 
ready interested." 

"  Everybody  in  the  South  would  be  interested  in 
my  pictures !  "  Page  exclaimed. 

"  But  unfortunately  the  people  who  buy  books  are 
not  in  the  South,  at  present,  Miss  Warwick,  and  the 
object  of  publishers  in  publishing  a  book  is  to  sell  it." 

"  You  are  not  very  encouraging,  Mr.  Dalton," 
Page  exclaimed,  with  a  musical  but  slightly  hysterical 
laugh.  "  Nevertheless,  I  think  my  book  will  sell !  " 

"  Why  your  book  especially?  "  Dalton  inquired,  and 
Page  thought  him  rude. 

"  Because  it's  all  true!  Because  every  scene  in  it 
is  from  life!  " 

"  All  lives  are  not  interesting,"  remarked  Dalton. 

"  But  the  lives  of  Virginians  are  interesting,  aren't 
they?" 

Dalton  smiled  and  said  nothing. 

"  I've  described  all  the  feelings,  the  real  feelings 
of  my  people  since  —  since  their  —  our-  she 


220       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

paused,  "  defeat !  Those  feelings  are  very  real  and 
intense,  Mr.  Dalton!  We  aren't  one  bit  defeated  in 
our  hearts  —  we  aren't,  and  you  can  believe  what  I 
say  —  even  though  twenty  years  have  passed,  at  all 
reconciled !  " 

Dalton  again  made  no  reply,  but  something  in  his 
expression  nettled  and  urged  her  on. 

"  The  old  scar  still  aches,"  she  burst  forth,  her 
cheeks  now  violently  aflame.  "  Wives  still  lament 
their  murdered  husbands;  mothers  still  dream  of  their 
murdered  sons,  and  our  dear  old  maiden  ladies  still 
cherish  the  memory  of  blighted  dreams.  As  for  we 
younger  ones,"  she  laughed  defiantly,  "  I  can  tell  you, 
we  are  fired  into  pain  and  fury  by  the  tales  they  tell 
us!" 

"Are  you?" 

While  melodious,  his  voice  was  so  composed  and 
calm  that  Page  stared  at  him. 

"  Are  we  ? "  Another  defiant  laugh  rang  out. 
"  If  you  could  read  in  the  secret  corners  of  our  hearts 
you  would  see  that  in  spirit  not  one  of  us  has  yielded ! 
We  are  the  unconquered  defeated !  " 

She  glanced  at  the  Colonel  for  approbation  and, 
receiving  it,  went  on  more  excitedly: 

"  Don't  we  prove  it,  just  as  soon  as  the  money  can 
be  raised,  by  erecting  a  monument  or  a  statue  to  some 
fallen  hero  that  we  may  continue  to  honor  our  wor- 
shiped martyred  ones  and  shout  and  weep  anew! 
Oh!  You  should  witness  one  of  our  unveilings! 
There  is  as  much  enthusiasm,  madness  if  you  will,  in 
the  hearts  of  the  people  as  there  was  one  year  after 
the  sword  of  General  Lee  was  yielded  up  to  General 
Grant!" 

"  That's  right,  Miss  Warwick,  you  tell  the  Yankees 


WET  BLANKETS  221 

these  things!  "  the  Colonel,  who  was  leaving  the  din- 
ing-room, called  out. 

"  My  dear  Colonel,"  Mr.  Dalton  interjected,  "  you 
should  not  mislead  Miss  Warwick!  Novels,  such  as 
she  describes  hers  to  be,  are  pouring  in  to  the  publish- 
ers by  the  score.  The  rebels  are  still  yelling,  as  she 
admits,  and  waving  the  bloody  shirt,  but  it  isn't  good 
policy." 

;<  We  don't  care  about  good  policy !  "  Page  burst 
forth,  receiving  a  smile  from  the  Colonel  at  the  door. 

Mr.  Dalton  perceptibly  raised  his  massive  shoul- 
ders. 

"  Recklessness  of  policy  is  Southern  folly,  Miss 
Warwick,  and  I  believe  you  would  find  it  more  profit- 
able to  tell  in  your  books  of  all  the  benefits  the  war 
has  brought  about." 

"  What  benefits  ?  There  aren't  any  benefits  that  I 
can  see!  I  never  will  see  any  benefit  from  that 
wicked,  cruel  war,  Mr.  Dalton !  Never !  " 

"  But  you  can't  go  on  looking  at  things  from  one 
side,  Miss  Warwick!  Without  that  war  our  devel- 
opment as  a  civilized  nation  couldn't  have  gone  on !  " 

"  I  see  only  the  other  side! "  Page  retorted. 
"  What  war  destroyed!  " 

"  Yes,  but  that  is  the  personal,  the  trifling1  side. 
I'm  not  speaking  of  Virginia,  you  know,  but  the  whole 
world!  The  trouble  with  you  Virginians  is  that  you 
consider  Virginia  the  one  important  spot  in  the  uni- 
verse. Now  if  one  of  your  spring  freshets  was  to 
come  along  and  wash  it  off  the  map  we  here  in  New 
York  would  have  our  breakfast  just  the  same." 

"  Virginia  is  the  grandest  spot  in  the  world,  Mr. 
Dalton!"  Page  exclaimed  through  tears.  "She  has 
never  been  anything  but  supreme  in  the  eyes  of  her 


222       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

people !     I  won't  sit  here  and  hear  her  criticised !  " 

"  But,"  said  Dalton,  smiling,  "  you  should  be  brought 
to  the  realization  of  the  fact  that  she  has  had  her 
day  —  a  very  interesting  and  tragic  one,  I  admit,  but 
you  must  also  admit  that  she  is  now  a  back  number !  " 

Page  suddenly  paled.  "  Do  you  consider  your 
grandmother  a  back  number,  Mr.  Dalton,  because  she 
has  had  her  day  as  you  express  it  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  one,  but  if  I  had  I  certainly  would !  " 

She  laughed  nervously.  "  I  suppose,"  she  re- 
turned, "it  is  because  sentiment  is  not  estimated  by 
you  as  a  part  of  life.  With  us,  you  know  it  is;  we 
reverence  all  the  more  that  which,  as  you  put  it,  has 
had  its  day.  All  the  old  ladies  in  Virginia  are 
queens !  " 

"  Up  here,  Miss  Warwick,  we  reverence  that  which 
is  advancing,  pushing  ahead,  becoming  of  use !  " 

"  Virginia  will  rise  again !  "  Page  exclaimed,  routed 
but  holding  her  ground. 

"  Possibly,"  said  Mr.  Dalton,  quietly,  "  but  before 
she  does  if  her  people  would  stop  prating  it  would  be 
better.  You  Virginians  remind  me  of  a  lot  of  chick- 
ens out  in  the  rain  cackling  about  what  a  fine  hen- 
house they  have.  If  it  is  so  fine  why  aren't  you 
there?" 

"  I  ought  to  be !  "  Page  exclaimed,  through  a  gush 
of  tears. 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  Dalton  answered,  and  left  the 
table. 

"  The  next  time,"  whispered  Miss  Jenkins,  "  you 
just  give  it  to  him!  " 

But  Page,  humiliated  and  still  fighting  her  tears, 
did  not  reply. 

Mrs.  Nesbit  appeared  at  the  doorway  and  made  an 
irrelevant  remark  about  people  talking  and  holding 


WET  BLANKETS  223 

back  the  table,  and  Page  hurriedly  left  the  dining- 
room. 

She  climbed  the  steps  overwhelmed  by  emotions 
which  she  attempted  to  control,  but  once  in  her  room 
she  flung  herself,  face  downwards,  on  her  bed  and 
burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears. 

When  her  composure  was  partly  restored  and  she 
was  on  her  feet,  moving  aimlessly  about  her  room,  a 
sudden  and  acute  homesickness  overtook  her  and  in- 
tense longing  for  the  presence  of  Dave. 

Seating  herself  and  taking  her  little  portfolio  on 
her  knees,  she  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Dave  which  was, 
wholly  unconscious  on  her  part,  a  furious  appeal  for 
sympathy. 

When  it  was  finished  she  decided  to  mail  it  imme- 
diately and  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  encountered  Mrs. 
Wilton,  who  was  entering  the  front  door. 

"  Hello !  "  said  that  lady  with  a  smile.  "  Going 
out?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Page  graciously,  "  I'm  going  to 
mail  a  letter !  " 

"  Been  pouring  out  your  woes,  eh !  I  met  old  Miss 
Jenkins  in  the  drug  store  and  she  said  you  and  Dalton 
had  a  round  after  I  left.  I  wonder,"  she  added, 
"  what  makes  you  Southerners  such  fools !  " 

"Are  we?"   Page  asked  curiously. 

"Of  course!  The  last  one  of  you!  Now,  why 
do  you  bother  your  head  with  what  a  selfish  prig  like 
that  Dalton  has  to  say?  Don't  you  know  he  lives 
only  for  himself  and  to  be  disagreeable?  What  do 
you  do  with  yourself  all  day?"  she  then  inquired 
abruptly. 

"  Work!  "  Page  burst  forth.  "  I'm  working  on  my 
novel!" 

"  Is  that  so?     Say,  wasn't  that  breakfast  this  morn- 


224       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

ing  horrible?  I  didn't  eat  mine  and  I  know,  with 
Dalton  at  your  heels,  you  didn't  eat  a  mouthful !  I'll 
tell  you  what  to  do!  When  you've  posted  your  let- 
ter come  up  to  my  room,  second  floor  front.  I'm 
going  over  to  a  little  French  place  in  Twenty-seventh 
Street  to  get  something  decent  to  eat.  I'll  take  you 
along  if  you  care  to  go!  You'll  say  when  you  leave 
there,  that  in  spite  of  all  your  old  Virginia  cooking, 
you've  never  eaten  a  meal  or  drank  a  cup  of  coffee 
before.  Will  you  go  ?  " 

"Will  I?"  exclaimed  Page,  fighting  another  gush 
of  tears  at  this  sudden  encounter  of  kindness.  "  I 
will  be  only  too  delighted !  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I've 
been  pretty  lonely  since  I  came  to  New  York,  and  to- 
day I  feel  actually  blue!  You  really  would  like  me 
to  go  with  you?  " 

"  Certainly,  come  along!  It  isn't  a  particularly  fine 
place  —  these  French  restaurants  never  are  —  but  the 
cooking  is,  and  lots  of  literary  people,  writers,  news- 
paper men  and  all  that,  go  there.  I  may  meet  some- 
one I  know  and  if  I  do  I  will  introduce  you." 

"Oh!  You  are  very  kind!"  Page  cried,  highly 
elated. 

"  I  hope  you  will  continue,"  said  Mrs.  Wilton, 
mounting  the  steps,  "  to  live  up  to  that  statement 
when  you  know  me  better.  As  for  myself,  I  have 
my  doubts.  But,"  she  paused  and  looked  back,  "  if 
I  can  knock  some  of  the  Southern  nonsense  out  of 
you,  we  can  have  some  good  times !  " 

Page  thought  how  triumphantly  beautiful  Airs. 
Wilton  was,  laughed,  and  ran  out  with  her  letter. 

An  hour  later  they  were  seated  in  the  little  French 
restaurant. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   UNEXPECTED   VISITOR 

"  HERE'S  a  card  for  you,  Miss  Warwick,"  said  the 
maid,  entering-  Page's  room  a  few  mornings  later. 
She  extended  the  card  and  Page,  after  staring  at  it, 
sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Dave!  "  she  exclaimed  as  the  door  closed  on  the 
girl,  a  dozen  conflicting  emotions  springing  to  her 
heart. 

She  dressed  herself  as  hurriedly  as  her  excitement 
would  permit  and  descended  to  the  parlor. 

The  first  sight  of  him  standing  erect,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  open  door,  angered  her. 

She  had  been  having  some  exciting,  pleasant  hours 
with  her  new-found  friend,  Mrs.  Wilton,  and  his  ar- 
rival could  mean  but  one  thing:  he  had  come  to  take 
up  the  old  struggle  of  standing  like  a  wall  between 
her  and  her  life  of  independence. 

He  sprang  to  meet  her,  his  eyes  aflame  with  love 
and  joy. 

"  Page!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Dave!  "  she  echoed,  putting  her  hands  in  his  and 
gazing  up  at  him.  ''  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"  Your  letter  brought  me!  " 

"My  letter?" 

"  Yes.  The  one  I  received  yesterday.  You  said 
you  were  lonely,  depressed,  had  a  helpless  feeling:  I 
thought  you  needed  me !  " 

In  a  flash  she  understood.  She  had  almost  forgot- 

225 


226       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

ten  having  written  the  doleful  letter  in  the  interesting 
events  that  followed  upon  it. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  written  it,"  she  said  in  a  sup- 
pressed voice.  "  I  was  tired  —  something  had  hap- 
pened to  worry  me  —  it  wasn't  fair  to  myself !  I 
shouldn't  have  written  it !  " 

"  Oh !  But,  Page,  I'm  glad  you  did !  It  made  me 
forget  everything  — •  that  dreadful  scene  when  I  think 
I  must  have  been  half-mad  from  grief  and  excitement 
—  it  made  me  forget  that,  and  that  you  ran  away 
during  my  absence  —  all  the  pain  and  anguish  —  all 
the  anxiety  your  failure  to  write  has  caused  me!  I 
forgot  everything  except  that  you  were  lonely  —  had 
turned  to  me  for  sympathy  and  that  I  was  coming  to 
you  as  fast  as  the  train  could  bring  me !  "  He  took 
up  her  hands.  "  To  think  that  I  am  looking  at  you, 
that  your  hands  are  in  mine !  Oh !  If  you  knew  how 
happy  I  am!  You  do  not  know  what  this  day  is  in 
my  life!  It's  the  first  pleasure,  I  believe,  that  I  ever 
openly,  boldly,  unstintingly  gave  myself!" 

How  natural  his  voice  sounded,  how  used  she  was 
to  this  flow  of  impassioned  words.  What  memories 
they  brought  back! 

"  Dave !  "  she  again  exclaimed. 

"  Shall  we  sit  here  on  this  sofa?  "  he  asked,  glanc- 
ing about  him  and  leading  her  towards  one. 

When  she  was  seated  beside  him,  still  holding  her 
hands,  he  went  on. 

"  In  the  train  last  night,  I  didn't  sleep  much ;  I  sup- 
pose I  was  very  excited  —  I  kept  saying  to  myself, 
that  I  was  coming  to  you.  I  finally  made  up  my  mind 
to  forget  everything  else !  Oh !  I  have  missed  you 
so !  "  She  thought  he  turned  pale.  "  It  has  been  so 
desolate  without  you;  sometimes  it  has  seemed  to  me 


THE  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR         227 

that  there  was  not  one  soul  left  in  the  world  but 
mother  and  me ;  that  all  the  houses  were  vacant  —  all 
the  streets  deserted!  Oh!  my  God,  Page,  the  pain 
of  missing  you!  But  I'm  going  to  forget  it  for  this 
one  day!  I'm  like  the  drunkard  who  has  walked  ten 
miles  for  a  drink  and  sees  the  glass  before  him  —  I 
saw  my  happiness  ahead  of  me  —  at  every  turn  of  the 
wheels  — •  and  I'm  almost  afraid  to  put  out  my  hand 
for  the  glass  for  fear  of  breaking  it !  " 

\Yhile  Dave  was  ringing  out  these  wild  words, 
Page's  mind  was  partly  on  him  and  partly  on  the  hap- 
penings of  the  past  two  days.  She  tried  to  dismiss 
these  thoughts,  the  lunches  and  the  supper  she  had  had 
as  well  as  the  people  Mrs.  Wilton  had  introduced  her 
to.  Returning  the  firm  pressure  of  his  hand  and 
smiling  into  the  famished  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face, 
she  asked  brightly:  "  And  how  is  everybody,  Dave?  " 

"  Mother  is  well,"  he  answered  quite  simply,  "  old 
Aunt  Martha  has  come  home  and  they  have  fine  times 
together!  "  Dave's  face  clouded  an  instant.  "  Uncle 
Ran  has  moved  to  his  little  country  home  in  Amelia, 
and  my  large  salary,"  a  tiny  laugh  broke  forth,  "  as 
junior  member  of  the  firm  of  Meredith  and  Lee  is 
supporting  the  establishment !  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Page  answered.  "  Aunt  Constance 
wrote  me." 

"  We  are  very  fine  there  now,"  he  exclaimed  boy- 
ishly. "  The  mare  has  new  harness  and  I  wish  you 
could  see  mother  in  her  new  black  silk !  She  wore  it 
to  St.  Paul's  last  Sunday  and  everybody  stared  at  her 
and  looked  most  approvingly  at  me ;  I  was  very  nearly 
congratulated  over  the  black  silk  and,  Page  —  I  saw 
a  blue  one  in  Cardoza's  window,  it  looked  like  yards 
of  heaven  unrolled,  and  I  just  stood  there  dreaming 


228        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

of  buying  it  for  you!  Turn  your  face  this  way,  let 
me  look  at  you!  Oh!  my  God,  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  you !  " 

A  tear  had  sprung  to  Dave's  eye  but  it  quickly  van- 
ished and  he  continued  to  talk  to  her  as  though  words 
were  the  overflow  of  his  soul. 

"  So  this  is  where  you  live!  "  he  said,  looking  about 
him.  "  How  I  have  tried  to  picture  you  day  and 
night,  always  trying  to  place  you  where  I  could  see 
you!  But  I  never  dreamed  of  you  in  such  magnifi- 
cent surroundings!  I  suppose  this  is  magnificence! 
I  note  the  marble  fireplace,  the  statue  over  there,  those 
very  large  pictures  and,  Page,  I  never  saw  so  many 
draperies  in  all  my  life!  It's  insolent  splendor!  " 
He  laughed.  "  How  do  you  stand  it  ?  I  should 
think  a  room  like  this  would  wilt  a  flower  in  a  night 
and  I  would  give  it  just  one  year  to  wilt  the  freshest, 
sweetest  woman  that  ever  rejoiced  in  Virginia  sun- 
shine. But  now  speak  to  me !  You  are  here  —  we 
can't  help  that,  so  tell  me  everything  about  yourself, 
the  people  you  have  met  —  everything  you  do !  How 
is  the  book  coming  on  ?  " 

"Famously!" 

"  Congratulations ! "  Dave  clapped  his  hands. 
"  And  when  you  are  not  writing,  what  do  you  do  with 
yourself?"  His  eyes  strayed  about.  "Don't  you 
find  it  very  lonesome  here?  It  seems  so  terribly  dull 
and  ponderous  —  I  feel  exactly  as  though  you  and  I 
had  met  in  a  tomb." 

"Oh!  You  never  see  the  people  in  here,"  Page 
answered  a  bit  grandly.  "  They  are  always  on  the 
go,  this  is  merely  the  reception  room." 

"  I  see,"  answered  Dave. 

"  People  here,"  laughed  Page,   "  just  rush  around 


THE  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR         229 

and  tear  about!  There  is  a  Mrs.  Wilton  here;  we 
have  gotten  quite  intimate.  She  is  introducing  me 
to  her  friends  and  I  expect  to  go  out  with  her  a  good 
deal !  " 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Wilton  ? "  asked  Dave,  a  sudden 
sharp  ring  in  his  voice. 

Page  again  flushed. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  Dave ;  people  never  know  who 
anybody  is  here  —  I  just  met  her  at  the  table." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  asked  Dave,  "  that 
you  are  becoming  intimate  and  intend  to  go  about 
with  a  woman  of  whom  you  know  absolutely  noth- 


ing 


"Everybody  does  here!" 

"  But  you  are  not  everybody,  Page !  " 

A  ray  of  sunlight  that  parted  the  heavy  curtain  at 
the  windows  and  crept  in  had  been  stealing  towards 
them.  It  reached  Dave's  face  and  paused  there  and 
suddenly  lit  it  up  and  fixed  her  attention.  She  had 
half-forgotten  the  wonderful,  strange  beauty  of  that 
patrician  face  —  the  brown,  velvet  skin,  the  dark, 
smoldering  eyes  with  the  fire  of  a  race-horse  in  them 
and  the  light  of  a  Dante;  she  had  half -forgotten  the 
lofty,  intellectual  brow  with  the  soft  raven  hair  fall- 
ing on  it,  the  high  delicate  nose,  the  fine  chiseled  lips, 
the  white  even  teeth,  the  iron-like  lower  jaw,  the 
thoroughbred  cast  of  all,  and  for  a  moment  it  came 
as  a  surprise,  and  nearly  took  her  breath  away. 

"  Dave!  "  she  whispered,  drawing  closer  to  him. 

"Well,  Page?" 

"  Nothing  —  only  —  you  seem  so  different  from 
every  one  here  — " 

"  I  hope  so,"  Dave  laughed,  still  bent  on  being  gay. 
"  You're  in  Yankee-land  you  know !  I  have  brought 


230       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

you  a  little  gift,"  he  added  suddenly,  his  voice  chang- 
ing, "  will  you  look  at  it?  " 

His  hand  went  to  his  pocket. 

"A  gift?"  Page  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  something  I  heard  you  say,  once,  you  wanted 
more  than  anything  in  the  world !  " 

"What  is  it,  Dave?" 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  Something  you  said  you 
wanted  to  hang  on  a  little  chain  and  wear  on  your 
breast,  day  and  night,  night  and  day,  and  be  buried 
with!  Do  you  remember?" 

"  You  mean  — " 

Dave  was  opening  a  little  package.  He  took  from 
it  a  box  which  he  extended  to  her.  "  Open  it  your- 
self," he  said. 

The  box  contained  a  locket ;  it  hung  on  a  little  gold 
chain  and  inside  the  locket  was  a  picture  of  her  father, 
the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  soldier  in  his  uniform 
with  tiny  stars  on  the  collar. 

Page  was  speechless  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
picture.  Finally  Diave  bent  over  and  looked  with  her. 
"  I  thought  you  would  like  it,"  he  said.  "  Shall  I  fas- 
ten it  on  your  neck?  There,  now,"  he  bent  over  and 
kissed  the  back  of  her  neck  when  he  clasped  it,  "  keep 
it  there!" 

Through  tear-wet  eyes,  and  looking  up  at  him  she 
said  gently  and  reverently,  "  I  will  always  keep  it 
there,  Dave!" 

"  And,"  said  Dave,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes 
with  his  finger  and  smiling  into  them,  "  love  the  giver ! 
Can  people  kiss  in  this  splendid  room,  Page  ?  " 

He  was  so  bent  on  being  gay  that  it  was  impossible 
to  resist  him. 

"  Only    very    formally,"    she    answered,    smiling. 


THE  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR         231 

And  even  his  kiss  lacked  seriousness  like  the  opening 
bars  of  a  waltz  that  have  not  caught  the  rhythm. 

"  Go  now  and  get  your  hat,"  he  said,  "  we're  going 
out  and  I  want  you  to  show  me  the  sights !  I  can  only 
remain  one  day.  I  am  busy  with  cases  of  all  kinds, 
also  preparing  for  Fielding's  trial,  so  we  must  crowd 
everything  into  one  day.  Can't  we  go  to  a  matinee? 
I  saw  by  the  paper  Hamlet  is  being  played !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   SOUTHERN   ONLOOKER 

THE  day  passed  in  a  round  of  sight-seeing,  Dave 
keeping  up  an  almost  madly  merry  mood,  amused  at 
this,  cynical  about  something  else,  and  finally  horror- 
struck  at  Page  suggesting  their  going  to  a  spectacular 
play  that  was  being  discussed  in  the  boarding  house. 
He  carried  his  point  that  they  sit  side  by  side  through 
Shakespeare's  master-piece. 

"  That  ephemeral  thing,  Page,"  he  had  said,  "  a  lot 
of  senseless  gibberish  and  scenes  to  catch  the  jaded 
eye!  Why,  I've  been  wanting  to  see  Hamlet  all  my 
life  —  it's  been  my  dream !  " 

And  Page  never  forgot  Dave  through  that  per- 
formance. Alert,  alive,  living  in  the  realization  of  a 
lifelong  anticipation,  keen  about  the  finest  point, 
breathless  as  a  boy  during  the  murder  scene,  and  yet 
never  forgetting  her  —  taking  her  into  his  every  emo- 
tion as  a  part  of  it. 

At  the  close  they  walked  down  Broadway,  but  to 
her  surprise  she  could  not  enthuse  him  nor  arouse  in 
him  any  special  interest  in  the  passing  show. 

When  she  commented  on  this,  awakening  from  a 
momentary  trance,  he  replied :  "  I  was  not  seeing  it, 
Page,  I  was  thinking  of  you.  I  have  been  watching 
you  to-day  and  it  has  rather  staggered  me  that  such 
ordinary  scenic  effects  inspire  excitement  in  you. 
You  are  an  impressionist.  If  you  are  to  realize 
your  intention  of  becoming  a  novelist  you  must  begin 

232 


THE  SOUTHERN  ONLOOKER    233 

to  cultivate  the  power  of  analysis.  You  are  too  much 
overpowered  by  masses,  crowds,  noises,  splendid 
sights,  forgetting  that  of  themselves  they  are  nothing 
but  symbols.  To  find  you  influenced  by  this  appraisal 
of  the  tangible  expressions  of  false  luxury  in  a  world 
where  souls  and  bodies  are  bartered  for  gold;  where 
everything  is  disguised;  where  the  profligate  and  the 
senile,  so  long  as  they  conform  to  convention,  are 
considered  only  on  the  basis  of  their  visible  posses- 
sions; where  every  deformity,  moral,  spiritual  and 
physical,  may  be  condoned  if  there  be  money  enough 
to  distract  one,  is  a  shock  to  me.  I  grant  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  great  city;  I  couldn't  have  witnessed 
that  play,  presented  as  it  was  to-day,  and  not  admit 
it.  I  see,  perhaps  even  as  you  do  not,  all  the  wonder- 
ful achievements  of  man  to  produce  a  great  city  like 
this!  I  am  more  impressed  by  it  than  you  are,  but 
I  am  not  blinded  by  it.  It  is  no  place  for  those  like 
you  and  me,  who  have  been  reared  in  a  finer  at- 
mosphere. There  is  no  real  life  here  for  you  or  me! 
But  it's  a  grand  and  glorious  place  for  us  to  come  to, 
Page,  once  a  year,  twice  a  year,  three  times,  if  there 
is  something  going  on  worth  while.  But  it  should  be 
taken  in  as  a  pleasure,  just  as  we  have  always  taken 
in  the  state  fair  and  seen  the  abnormally  large  cows 
and  pigs  and  the  horse  racing.  But  life!  These 
people  here  forget  half  the  time  that  they  are  living 
and  that  life  is  a  thing  to  be  respected  and  valued. 
What  shall  we  do  now?  "  he  broke  off.  "  Isn't  there 
some  quiet  place  we  can  go  where  I  can  sit  with  you, 
look  into  your  eyes,  hold  your  hand,  and  realize  my 
joy  in  being  with  you!  But  not  that  parlor,"  he 
laughed.  "  All  the  time  I  was  there  I  felt  like  a  crim- 
inal!" 


234 

The  street  scenes  about  them  were  very  gay  at  this 
hour.  People  were  hurrying  by  in  vehicles  and  on 
foot.  Already  there  were  lights  in  many  of  the  shops 
and  buildings  and  a  man  was  lighting  up  the  street. 

Well-dressed  men  swung  by  leaving  the  odor  of 
whisky  and  mixed  drinks  on  the  air,  and  many  of  the 
women's  eager,  restless,  anxious  eyes  shone  out  like 
false  lights  to  lead  them  astray. 

Dave  breathed  in  the  odor  of  the  men's  breaths  and 
glanced  into  the  eyes  of  the  women.  Then  he 
stopped  on  a  corner  and  Page  saw  that  his  face  had 
grown  grim. 

"  Page,  I  swore  not  to  ask  you  this!  I  swore  to 
come  here  to  make  it  a  day  of  happiness  for  you,  and 
if  I  succeeded  in  that,  to  ask  nothing  more!  But 
when  are  you  coming  home?  My  darling,  when  are 
you  coming  home?  " 

He  started  forth  again,  and  the  twilight  having 
deepened,  he  took  her  hand  within  his  arm.  Page 
winced  a  little  at  this;  it  seemed  old-fashioned  to  her 
and  even  in  big  New  York  she  might  come  face  to 
face  with  someone  who  knew  her. 

She  glanced  critically  at  Dave,  noting  in  some  sur- 
prise the  lifted  head  and  self-satisfied  manner  of  the 
man  in  slight  astonishment. 

Dave  was  not  fashionable.  The  suit  he  wore,  a 
dark  brown  one,  was  familiar  to  her,  and  had  been 
for  a  long  time;  his  collar,  not  especially  well  laun- 
dered, the  work  of  some  old  colored  woman,  was  not 
of  the  style  worn  by  the  gentlemen  at  the  boarding 
house,  or  those  to  whom  Mrs.  Wilton  had  introduced 
her;  his  cuffs  were  not  the  latest  and  the  old  link  cuff- 
buttons  his  grandfather  had  worn  were  in  them. 
This  costume,  together  with  the  watch  fob  that  Dave 


THE  SOUTHERN  ONLOOKER    235 

wore  —  it  had  a  red  seal  in  it  and  had  also  belonged 
to  his  grandfather  —  made  Dave  the  image  of  some 
old  portraits  that  hung  on  the  walls  of  the  Capitol 
or  in  Colonial  homes. 

Page  hesitated,  with  a  feeling  of  self-reproach, 
about  introducing  Dave  to  Mrs.  Nesbit's  table,  and 
thought  for  an  instant  of  suggesting  as  a  place  to  be 
quiet,  and  alone,  some  restaurant  for  dinner.  The 
thought  was  drowned  in  a  burning  flush.  Dave  was 
her  visitor.  How  would  it  be  possible  not  to  have 
him  as  her  guest,  or  explain  away  such  a  breach  of 
etiquette  ? 

So  a  little  later  these  two  young  Virginians  found 
themselves  mounting  the  stone  steps  of  Mrs.  Nesbit's 
boarding  house. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SENTENCED  TO  CHAINS 

PAGE  introduced  Dave  to  the  boarders  assembled 
for  dinner  and  there  was  the  momentary  silence  al- 
ways attendant  upon  the  arrival  of  a  stranger  which 
soon  passed. 

For  a  moment,  Dave,  whose  idea,  as  Page's  had 
been,  was  that  a  boarding  house  was  a  kind  of  refuge 
for  the  despairing,  felt  himself  slightly  disconcerted. 
He  was  surprised  also,  just  as  Page  had  been  on  her 
arrival,  at  the  display,  the  number  of  people,  and  the 
elaborate  costumes  they  wore. 

As  usual  there  were  men  and  women  in  evening 
dress  and  the  effect,  he  had  to  admit,  was  rather  daz- 
zling. It  was  easy  to  understand  how  this  false  show 
might  take  a  hold  on  Page  and  a  new  feeling  of  anx- 
iety concerning  her  filled  his  heart.  To  the  super- 
ficial view  there  was  sufficient  here,  in  these  ostensibly 
gay  people,  and  their  surroundings,  to  turn  any  im- 
pressionable girl's  head. 

The  Colonel  entered  and  Page  introduced  him. 

"  Delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Lee,"  exclaimed  the 
Colonel,  putting  out  his  hand  cordially.  "  Miss  Page 
has  often  spoken  of  you.  She  tells  me  that  you  are 
the  son  of  an  old  friend  of  mine.  I  knew  your  father 
well,  we  were  both  on  Jackson's  staff  —  a  brave  sol- 
dier, sir,  and  a  gallant  gentleman!  You  don't  look 
like  him,"  he  added,  scanning  Dave's  face  with  keen 

interest. 

236 


SENTENCED  TO  CHAINS  237 

"  No,  Colonel,"  answered  Dave,  rising,  "  I  am,  they 
tell  me,  the  image  of  my  mother." 

"  But  you  have  his  voice,"  said  the  Colonel,  half 
sadly.  "  Glad  to  have  met  you,  sir." 

The  dinner  passed  pleasantly,  Dave  under  the  in- 
fluence of  novelty  and  the  happiness  of  being  by 
Page's  side,  showed  off  to  her  great  satisfaction. 

When  they  entered  the  parlor  afterwards  he  looked 
at  his  watch  in  surprise. 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  it  is  nine 
o'clock !  How  the  day  has  passed  and  yet  it  has  con- 
tained for  me  so  much  —  years  might  have  passed 
since  this  morning!  To  think  that  I  have  been  with 
you  a  whole  day,  and  that  we  have  witnessed  Hamlet, 
sitting  side  by  side,  and  that  I  have  dined  with  you!  " 

The  day  had  indeed  been  an  event  in  Dave's  life, 
and  the  dinner  hour,  during  which  he  had  easily  cap- 
tured and  held  the  attention  of  the  dining-room,  had 
excited  him  a  little.  Dave  did  not  know  that  Mr. 
Dalton  had  smiled  at  his  boyish  enthusiasm  and  utter 
naturalness,  or  that  he  had  with  a  quick  glance  under- 
stood him  as  representative  of  a  type  that  had  only 
to  be  egged  on  to  become  voluble  and  oratorical. 

As  they  took  their  seats  on  the  sofa,  in  spite  of  the 
flying  of  time,  Dave  felt  very  happy. 

The  light,  so  brilliant  before  the  dinner  hour,  had 
been  economically  lowered,  and  as  in  the  morning 
they  had  the  room  to  themselves. 

For  a  short  while  there  was  a  straggling  procession 
of  people  on  the  stairs  all  making  for  the  street. 
Young  men  who  ran  down  lightly,  over-fed  middle- 
aged  couples,  descending  leisurely,  and  young  women 
tastefully  costumed,  who  left  the  delicate  odor  of 
sachets  and  extracts  on  the  air.  Then  the  house  set- 


238        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

tied  down  to  perfect  stillness  broken  only  by  the  dis- 
tant rattle  of  the  washing  of  dishes. 

"  Dave !  "  Page  exclaimed  presently,  "  I  was  very 
proud  of  you  to-night !  You  were  so  brilliant !  " 

Dave  laughed. 

"  Did  you  think  so?  I  was  interested.  That  Mr. 
Dalton  interested  me;  he  is  the  first  self-made  man  I 
ever  talked  to !  " 

"  Is  he  a  self-made  man,  Dave  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  Have  you  not  observed  the  coarse 
hands,  the  stumpy  fingers,  the  workman's  neck  and 
shoulders?  Why,  the  fellow  is  only  learning  how  to 
handle  his  knife  and  fork,  and  certainly  he  has  not 
learned  how  to  address  a  lady.  And  yet  he  was  a 
revelation  to  me.  He  was  given  a  brain,  and  with 
that  alone  he  is  where  he  is,  a  man  of  affairs,  and  one 
of  the  heads  of  a  great  newspaper !  " 

Dave  was  talking  as  though  to  himself,  one  of  those 
momentary  lapses  into  self  that  Page  was  familiar 
with. 

"  He  allows  himself,"  he  went  on,  now  addressing 
himself  to  her,  "  no  freedom  in  his  daily  life  —  he  is 
a  machine.  I  would  like  to  see  the  fellow  live  a  few 
days.  Ah!  Page,  how  I  pity  these  people  here, 
housed  up  like  beasts,  each  man  in  his  cage  and  fed 
three  times  a  day  by  a  keeper.  At  least  I  have  never 
been  without  a  home,  and  if  I  haven't  owned  slaves, 
I've  owned  a  horse  and  a  dog."  He  bent  tenderly  to- 
wards her.  "  And  to  think  of  you  here  a  part  of 
this  caravansary,  and  of  your  own  choice!  Better 
our  old  dances,  Page,  in  the  clean  sweet  barn,  with 
the  smell  of  stacked-up  corn  in  our  nostrils  and  the 
stars  shining  through  the  rotting  shingles,  than  this 
false  show.  And  to  think  that  I  must  leave  you  here ! 


SENTENCED  TO  CHAINS  239 

If  only  you  knew  what  it  costs  me;  if  only  you  knew 
how  you  make  me  suffer." 

As  of  old,  the  tones  of  his  voice  penetrated  her 
nerve  centers. 

"  I  know !  I  know !  "  she  whispered,  and  nestled 
against  him. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  there  came  over  her  a 
sudden  comprehension  of  what  this  young  Virginian 
was.  She  felt  all  that  he  stood  for.  She  knew  that 
a  lie  could  no  more  pass  his  lips  than  that  the  stars 
could  emit  a  poisoned  flame;  she  knew  that  between 
him  and  dishonor  death  always  stood.  She  had  been 
proud  of  Dave  at  dinner,  and  there  came  over  her  a 
dim  realization  that  he  was  but  a  spark  of  the  old 
regime  not  yet  expired,  but  that  would  expire  in  the 
new  order  of  things,  and  he  became  doubly  dear  and 
of  tremendous  importance  on  that  account.  Her 
mind  grew  excited  about  him.  She  saw  him  like  a 
soldier  who  has  not  heard  of  the  battle  lost,  still  hold- 
ing aloft  a  tattered  flag. 

He  seemed  to  feel  her  thoughts,  and  slipped  his 
arm  about  her  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"  Why  do  you  persist  in  this  sojourn  here  that  keeps 
you  away  from  my  arms?  "  he  cried  under  his  breath. 
"  Am  I  not  worth  anything  to  you  ?  Isn't  this  mo- 
ment worth  anything  to  you?  Isn't  my  love  worth 
anything  —  aren't  my  kisses  more  than  — 

She  freed  herself  from  him  half-petulantly,  in  self- 
defense. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Dave,  but,"  he  could  feel  the  shrinking 
of  her  form,  "  but  don't  ask  me  to  go  back !  " 

"Oh!     Page,  why?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  can't  explain  —  it's  the  book, 
I  suppose,  that  first  anyway.  One  must  be  properly 


24o       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

situated  —  properly  isolated  to  write !  I  have  been 
hearing  so  much  recently  about  the  requirements  of  a 
writer.  One  must  sacrifice  everything  and  everybody 
to  art.  An  artist  must  place  himself  where  he  can 
be  himself  to  the  fullest !  " 

Dave  smiled.  "  Do  you  think  any  one  here,  Page, 
is  himself  ?  You  can  be  yourself  at  home  —  not  here. 
All  the  really  beautiful  and  appealing  things  are  there. 
What  appeals  to  you  here  are  but  accessories  to  jaded 
appetites  and  passions,  no  more  real  than  the  painted 
scenes  on  a  gilded  curtain,  only,  something  —  God 
knows  what  —  has  blinded  your  eyes.  What  better 
environment,  Page,  than  the  universal,  God-given  en- 
vironment—  nature  herself!  Have  you  forgotten 
our  azure  heavens  with  their  blazing  golden  stars? 
Have  you  forgotten  our  wheat  fields  waving  like  si- 
lent green  seas?  Have  you  forgotten  the  corn  stand- 
ing erect,  tossing  its  ribbons  to  the  breeze,  the  fruit 
trees  with  their  faint  smelling,  lovely  tinted  blossoms, 
our  stately  magnolia  lifting  ivory  cups  to  catch  the 
perfume  of  heaven  itself?  Have  you  forgotten  these 
things,  and  the  flowers  that  bloom  everywhere  so 
riotously,  gorgeously,  and  persistently,  even  when  the 
snow  lies  on  the  ground,  still  blooming!  Is  not  all 
that  environment  ?  And  for  the  soul !  Look  with  me 
down  the  old  streets  of  Richmond !  Can't  you  almost 
see  banners  waving?  Look  at  the  words  on  them! 
Truth!  Honor!  Sentiment!  Bravery!  Courage! 
You  want  environment!  Is  there  not  environment 
in  all  that?  Is  it  not  enchantment  to  the  pure  in 
heart,  the  pure  in  mind  —  your  heart,  your  mind! 
Crown  it  all  with  my  love!  Know  that  I  will  take 
sweet,  sweet  care  of  you!  Have  faith  that  with  you 
by  my  side,  all  that  you  want  from  a  material  stand- 


SENTENCED  TO  CHAINS  241 

point  will  be  yours,  for  it  would  be  so  —  I  am  capable 
of  all  things  for  your  sake!  " 

"  Dave,"   she  whispered,  "  you  cannot  change  the 
conditions  there  that  weighed  me  down !  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to — •!  want  to  glorify  them  for 
you !     Love  can  do  that !  " 

She  freed  herself  from  his  embrace.  "  No,  it 
would  not !  "  she  cried  under  her  breath.  "  I  would 
always  feel  myself  a  slave  to  the  opinions  of  others, 
always  tied  —  held  down,  never  daring  to  express  an 
idea  that  had  not  been  expressed  a  thousand  times 
before  —  that  had  not  the  sanction  of  usage  and  of 
time.  Oh!  How  I  tried  to  keep  step,  Dave,  keep 
time,  you  never  will  know  how  I  tried,  but  I  couldn't. 
If  I  wanted  to  sing  it  must  not  be  louder  than  my 
neighbor;  if  I  wanted  to  dance  it  must  be  the  same 
step  of  all  the  others  —  no  quicker,  no  slower !  And 
I  was  yearning  to  do  things  not  as  others  did  them! 
Freedom,  freedom,  my  heart  cried!  Free  to  live  my 
life  as  no  one  had  ever  exactly  lived  a  life  before! 
You  don't  know  how  hard  it  was  to  run  away,  with 
you  and  everyone  I  loved,  holding  me  back!  I  do 
love  you!  I  knew  it  that  night  at  Fielding's!  I 
knew  it  this  morning  when  I  saw  your  card  and  my 
heart  leaped  out  of  my  body!  I  knew  it  to-night 
when  my  pride  in  you  was  like  a  burning  flame,  but 
it  is  that  very  love  that  I  have  sworn  not  to  let  stand 
between  me  and  myself!  I  will  not  let  that  love 
drown  me!  I  won't  go  back,  Dave!  You  —  your 
love — -my  love,  can't  drag  me  back  where  every 
breath  I  draw  is  the  breath  of  repression,  where  even 
the  countenances  of  the  young  become  outlines  of 
duty;  where  the  women  hide  pale,  sorrowing  faces 
under  crepe  veils;  where  life  is  respectful  deference 


242       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

to  custom  and  to  sorrow!  I  see  those  banners,  Dave, 
yes,  and  I  see  the  arms  too  weary  to  wave  them!  I 
see  our  people  slaves  to  all  the  sacrifices  the  words  on 
those  banners  entail!  I  held  them  up  till  my  arms 
faltered  —  till  I  got  too  tired!  I  won't  go  back! 
It's  slavery,  Dave!  I  won't  be  a  slave!  " 

Dave  laughed  an  unexpected  triumphant  laugh  and 
then  bent  over  and  put  his  face  close  to  hers  and  she 
saw  the  triumph  also  shining  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  will  always  be  a  slave,"  he  breathed,  "  al- 
ways, always!  " 

She  laughed  back.     "  Will  I?     To  what?  " 

He  got  up,  and  standing  erect  in  front  of  her, 
folded  his  arms  on  his  breast  and  looked  down  upon 
her.  The  same  look  of  triumph  smiled  in  his  eyes 
that  were  also  compassionate.  "  To  what  ?  Vir- 
ginia ! " 

His  voice  cut  the  air  like  the  sudden  sound  of  a 
bird-call  at  midnight. 

She  made  no  reply,  sitting  with  cat-like,  shining 
eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

"  All  Virginians  are  slaves,"  Dave  went  on,  his 
voice  now  low  and  hushed.  "  I  am  a  slave,  every 
man  and  woman  born  on  her  soil  is  a  slave !  "  He 
bent  over  her,  holding  her  gaze.  "  You  are  her 
slave!  New  York  can't  free  you;  the  remotest  cor- 
ner of  the  earth  can't  free  you  —  nothing  can!  You 
may  desert  her,  jeer  at  her,  laugh  in  her  face,  deny 
her,  and  her  power  will  be  a  whip  upon  your  back 
that  will  make  you  cry  out  for  mercy  —  her  tender- 
ness will  enfold  you  until  you  cry  out  for  relief  — 
her  sorrows  will  weigh  upon  you  until  you  cry  out 
for  breath  to  endure  them !  Her  bloodshed  —  the 
blood  of  those  who  died  for  you  will  flow  before  your 


SENTENCED  TO  CHAINS  243 

eyes  and  you  will  hide  them  in  the  hollows  of  your 
hands !  Her  romantic  past,  her  chivalry,  her  patience, 
her  struggle  for  life,  her  heroism,  her  defeat,  her 
splendid  dignity  in  defeat,  all  will  hold  you  bound 
hand  and  foot  forever! 

'  You  may  be  scorned  by  her  for  what  you  do  to 
her,  made  an  outcast  by  her,  ignored  as  a  thing  un- 
clean; forgotten  as  a  thing  unworthy,  and  you  will 
crawl  back  and  kiss  the  dust  of  her  earth,  her  slave 

—  always  her  slave !     I  must  go  now !     Stand  up,  re- 
bellious little  slave,  lift  your  eyes,  put  your  hands  in 
mine!  " 

She  put  forth  her  hands,  he  took  them  and  drew 
her  to  her  feet  and  smiled. 

'  You  are  indeed  a  slave,  with  master  and  mistress 

—  Virginia  is  your  mistress,   Page,  and  I  am  your 
master !  " 

His  eyes  emitted  a  flash  that  was  like  lightning. 
She  started  and  cowered  a  little  under  it.  Another 
low  laugh  escaped  him. 

There  was  no  sweetness  in  the  kiss  he  pressed  to 
her  lips,  only  a  sharp  pain,  but  it  took  the  strength 
out  of  her,  and  as  he  passed  out  of  the  door  she 
dropped  down  on  the  sofa  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands,  something  like  hatred  in  her  heart,  but  her 
hand  clutching  the  locket  convulsively. 


CHAPTER  X 

A    SILENT    PROTECTOR 

WHEN  Dave  reached  the  stoop  he  encountered  the 
Colonel  smoking  a  cigar. 

"  You  are  not  leaving,  Mr.  Lee !  " 

"  Yes,  Colonel,  I  must  be  in  Richmond  by  to-mor- 
row morning." 

"  I  wish  you  were  staying  longer.  I  wish,"  and 
the  Colonel  smiled  mischievously,  "  you  were  taking 
Miss  Page  back  with  you.  The  fact  is,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  don't  like  to  see  our  girls  migrating  North. 
The  first  time  I  saw  Miss  Page  at  the  table,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  intense,  half -astonished  countenance, 
I  wanted  to  tell  her  to  pack  up  her  trunk  and  go  back. 
Pardon  this  —  but  why  did  her  relatives  let  her  come 
here  alone,  Mr.  Lee?" 

"  Her  parents  are  dead,  Colonel ;  the  voices  of 
friends  and  relatives  fell  on  deaf  ears." 

"Yours?"  smiled  the  Colonel. 

"  Yes,  even  mine  —  I  was  powerless  as  the  rest." 

"  It  was  a  great  mistake  —  a  great  mistake,"  echoed 
the  Colonel.  "  It's  a  mistake  for  any  Southern-bred 
girl  to  come  to  New  York." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Colonel,"  said  Dave  emphat- 
ically. 

"  They  come  up  here,"  the  Colonel  continued,  "  to 
write,  to  teach,  to  go  on  the  stage,  anything  serves  as 
an  excuse,  and  too  often,  I  have  seen  many  instances 
in  Mrs.  Nesbit's  boarding  house,  since  I  have  resided 

244 


A  SILENT  PROTECTOR  245 

here,  the  great  city  swallows  them  up.  Your  little 
friend  is  of  a  different  caliber,  a  superior  and  intelli- 
gent girl ;  all  the  same,  Mr.  Lee,  New  York  is  no  place 
for  any  unprotected  girl !  " 

"  Colonel,"  Dave  exclaimed,  "  I  know  it  only  too 
well !  I  feel  that  I  can  speak  to  you  as  though  I 
had  known  you  all  my  life  —  you  are  a  Virginian 
and  you  knew  my  father  —  that  is  enough.  I  wish 
I  could  have  a  long  talk  with  you,  I  wish  I  could  beg 
that  favor  of  you,  but  I  have  not  a  moment  to  spare 
or  I  might  miss  my  train !  Colonel !  " 

"Well,  my  son?" 

"  It's  a  comfort  to  know  that  she  is  under  the  same 
roof  with  you;  I  anticipate  no  trouble  befalling  her 
—  I  hope  she  will  soon  be  home,  but  at  any  time,  if 
for  any  reason,  you  feel  I  should  be  by  her  side,  will 
you  let  me  know  —  if  need  be  by  telegraph?" 

"  I  will,"  said  the  Colonel  calmly. 

Dave  was  getting  out  a  card  which  he  extended  and 
the  Colonel  took.  "  Keep  an  eye  on  her,  sir,  will 
you?"  he  half  pleaded. 

"  I  will,"  said  the  Colonel,  in  the  same  calm  voice. 

"  Good-by,  Colonel."  He  put  out  his  hand  and  the 
Colonel  took  it  in  a  warm  grasp. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Lee." 

And  Dave  was  off  like  a  shot,  and  down  the  street 
in  a  run. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   COLONEL 

ON  the  evening  of  the  day  that  her  book  was  com- 
pleted, Page  entered  the  dining-room  flushed,  elated, 
and  triumphant.  She  even  felt  bold  and  had  made 
up  her  mind  if  Mr.  Dal  ton  was  in  the  mood  to  be 
silent,  confining  himself  to  his  gluten  bread  and  vari- 
ous other  strange  edibles  that  he  indulged  in,  she  her- 
self would  open  the  attack. 

The  Colonel  gave  the  opportunity  by  inquiring  how 
she  had  spent  the  day. 

"  In  finishing  my  book,  Colonel !  "  she  exclaimed, 
and  then  cast  a  pair  of  flashing,  defiant  eyes  at  Dalton. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  that  gentleman  remarked,  as 
he  returned  her  glance. 

"Why?"  Page  flashed. 

"  Because  now  your  troubles  begin.  I  would  like 
to  advise  that  since  you  have  accomplished  your  task 
you  had  better  return  to  Virginia." 

"  And  may  I  inquire  why?  "  Page  demanded. 

"  To  save  yourself  trouble,"  Dalton  returned 
phlegmatically,  and  confined  himself  to  pouring  his 
pint  of  milk  into  a  high  glass. 

"  Mr.  Dalton,"  the  Colonel  exclaimed,  looking  up 
from  his  paper,  "  while  I  agree  with  you  that  Miss 
Warwick  should  be  in  Virginia,  it  is  perfectly  nat- 
ural that  along  with  many  others  she  should  prefer  to 
remain  here." 

"Why,  sir?"  asked  Dalton. 
346 


THE  COLONEL  247 

"  Because  it  is  natural  for  humanity  to  sacrifice  the 
beautiful  and  uplifting  to  fly  to  the  market-place  where 
there  is  a  better  opportunity  for  material  advance- 
ment. Miss  Warwick,"  he  added,  "  however,  may  be 
here  with  philanthropic  ideas  as  well.  It  may  be  her 
intention  by  her  presence  to  give  you  the  benefit  of 
social  culture." 

All  eyes  turned  quickly  upon  Mr.  Dalton  at  this. 

"  Your  colored  friends  are  straggling  up  here,  too, 
Colonel.  Do  you  suppose  they  have  such  a  purpose 
in  view?  " 

"  They  might  have,  sir.  The  butler  in  my  father's 
home  could  teach  many  a  Yankee  good  manners ! " 

"  "We  should  be  greatly  indebted,  Colonel,  and  to 
the  young  ladies  too !  " 

"  Our  Southern  girls  are  the  flowers  of  the  land, 
Mr.  Dalton :  you  must  be  very  careful  how  you  speak 
to  them !  " 

"Thank  you,  Colonel!"  Page  cried  out  nervously. 

Mr.  Dalton,  who  was  transferring  his  especial  cut 
of  rare  beef  from  its  dish  to  his  plate,  replied  with- 
out lifting  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  a  botanist,  Colonel,  and  know  little  about 
flowers,  but  if  your  simile  is  intended  to  convey  the 
idea  of  beauty,  of  frailty,  of  fickleness,  of  proud 
strength  in  sunshine  and  ignoble  weakness  in  the 
shade,  perhaps  it  is  so.  I  conceive  the  flower  of  the 
land,  though,  to  be  a  perennial  that  neither  frost  nor 
heat  can  blight,  and  also  that  possesses  a  beauty  that 
is  derived  from  its  hardiness.  Your  flower  wilts  too 
soon  and  its  perfume,  while  intoxicating,  is  poison- 
ous." 

"Come,  come,  now,  Mr.  Dalton,"  exclaimed  the 
Colonel. 


"  No,  Colonel  Beverly,"  Page  called,  "  let  him  go 
on !  Let  us  hear  all  he  has  to  say !  We  can  stand  it ; 
only  he  must  be  just." 

"  I  will  be,"  said  Mr.  Dalton,  laying  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  "  and  exact.  I  will  translate  what  I 
mean  into  direct  English.  The  Southern  women  of 
New  York  to-day,  while  appearing  all  you  would 
have  me  believe  them  to  be,  are  in  reality  the  an- 
titheses of  what  you  describe.  Their  naturalness  and 
apparent  childishness  are  masks  that  cover  a  subtlety, 
a  selfishness,  an  abandonment,  and  a  duplicity  that  to 
a  cold  Vermonter  like  myself,  reared  amidst  solid 
rocks  and  uncompromising  sturdiness,  is  astonishing. 
Their  very  presence  here  among  people  they  hate  and 
despise  is  an  acknowledgment  of  what  I  say.  The 
fact  is,  as  you  yourself  admitted,  they  are  here  to 
prey  upon  us.  Their  beauty  and  their  fascinations 
are  used  to  entrap,  and  they  glory  in  doing  it,  giving 
themselves  up  to  the  task  with  all  the  passion  of  their 
fervent  nature.  Family  honor,  even  the  family  name 
they  glory  in,  is  used  to  advance  their  cause.  They 
crave  excitement,  flattery,  incense,  adoration,  decora- 
tion, and  for  these  things  they  stop  at  nothing.  I 
must  add  that  their  powers  of  dissimulation  are  so 
remarkable  that,  as  a  rule,  we  see  in  them  the  most 
innocent  persons  in  the  world !  " 

The  entire  dining-room  had  become  breathless. 
The  Colonel  rose  in  his  seat  but  sat  down  again. 
Page  leaned  forward,  pale,  with  a  horrified  expression. 
Mrs.  Nesbit  appeared  and  took  her  stand  in  the  door- 
way. Instinctively  all  eyes  turned  upon  Page. 

"  Mr.  Dalton,"  said  the  Colonel,  rising  and  taking 
a  military  stand,  "  what  you  have  said  is  to  my  mind 
the  most  potent  argument  that  I  have  ever  heard  in 


THE  COLONEL  249 

condemnation  of  the  wrong  done  the  South  by  the 
war.  The  restraint  of  our  Southern  social  conditions 
kept  our  women  pure  and  sweet  and  dependent. 
Transplanted  into  this  alien  soil  they  absorb  its  poisons 
and  become  the  victims  of  every  vile  contagion. 
Southern  men  protect  their  women!  Alas!  These 
to  whom  you  have  referred,  who,  because  their  pro- 
tectors were  slain,  have  wandered  from  the  fold,  are 
truly  lambs  among  wolves.  You  are  correct.  With- 
out her  protector  the  Southern  woman  is  a  pitiable 
spectacle!  And  where  are  their  protectors,  Mr.  Dai- 
ton?  Ask  of  the  little  tombstones  that  mark  the 
soldiers'  graves  throughout  the  sunny  South !  " 

"  I  am  not  responsible  for  that,  Colonel,"  returned 
Mr.  Dalton. 

"  You  may  not  be,  nor  for  the  unhappy  creatures 
you  have  described  our  Southern  women  in  New 
York  to  be.  But  let  me  tell  you  this,  Mr.  Dalton, 
the  true  woman  responds  to  the  masculine  demand 
made  upon  her.  Does  he  want  her  an  angel  —  she 
is  one.  Does  he  want  her  a  devil  —  she  is  one. 
What  is  the  demand  made  upon  our  women  when 
they  come  among  you?  I  leave  the  answer  to 
you," 

"  The  Colonel  has  been  drinking,"  whispered  Miss 
Jenkins  to  Page.  But  Page,  whose  startled,  glowing 
eyes  were  fixed  on  Mr.  Dalton,  scarcely  heard  her. 

"I  leave  it  to  you,  Colonel,"  Mr.  Dalton  replied. 
"  When  a  woman  uses  her  charms  and  magnetism  to 
call  into  play  the  carnal  appetites  of  man,  what  is  he 
to  do?" 

"  Protect  her,  sir !  "  roared  the  Colonel. 

Mr.  Dalton  said  "  Bah !  "  But  the  majority  were 
clapping  hands  for  the  Colonel.  Many  rose  at  this 


250        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

turn  and  left,  so  that  the  dining-room  looked  thinned 
out. 

Page  felt  giddy  a  moment.  The  Colonel  swayed 
a  little,  and  she  recognized  that  Miss  Jenkins  was 
right.  This  alarmed  her,  for  there  had  come  into  the 
Colonel's  face  a  look  that  she  was  familiar  with  in 
the  man  countenance  of  Virginia,  and  it  meant  danger. 

"  Our  Southern  women,  Mr.  Dalton,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  are  sensitive,  and  therefore  influenced  by  environ- 
ment. The  angels  of  Heaven,  whose  robes  are  the 
whitest  and  whose  wings  are  daintiest,  whose  hearts 
and  minds  are  the  most  alert,  are  the  first  whom  a 
visit  to  Hell  would  smirch  and  make  appear  by  con- 
trast the  most  hideous.  The  brightest  inhabitants  of 
Purgatory,  who  have  already  been  singed,  being  of 
coarser  fiber,  in  the  furnace  of  existence,  never  go  to 
abandoned  lengths.  They  have  neither  the  natural- 
ness nor  the  happy  unconstraint  of  the  others,  and 
having  clipped  and  singed  wings,  fly  not  far,  not  be- 
cause they  would  not  like  to  but  because  they  cannot. 
Sudden  changes  of  environment  may  bring  out  latent 
instincts  that  for  generations  have  lain  dormant. 
Throw  the  petted  darlings  of  fortune  upon  a  cold, 
bleak  world  where  beauty,  charm,  loveliness,  and 
grace  no  longer  have  that  indefinable  value  given  by 
the  home,  at  the  fireside,  over  the  cradle,  and  what 
are  the  weapons  with  which  this  creature  can  battle 
with  the  world?  When  our  proud  stricken  ones  find 
themselves  of  necessity  in  a  heartless,  unsympathetic 
world,  the  primal  instinct  comes  to  the  front.  If  she 
cannot  conquer  by  force  she  conquers  by  fraud.  In 
conclusion,  Mr.  Dalton,  I  want  to  say  that  what  you 
have  said  of  the  Southern  women  in  New  York  may 
be  true;  I  don't  deny  it;  I  certainly  don't  admit  it; 


THE  COLONEL  251 

but  true  or  not  true,  Miss  Warwick  was  no  more 
mentally  prepared  to  hear  it  than  the  negro  was  men- 
tally prepared  for  freedom  when  he  got  it,  and  if 
you  don't  apologize,  sir,  you're  an  abominable  scoun- 
drel, sir,  and  you'll  answer  to  me!  " 

"I  do  at  once,  Colonel,"  laughed  Dalton,  showing 
a  set  of  white  teeth  that  Page  somehow  stood  in  awe 
of.  "  Miss  Warwick,  will  you  accept  my  most  hum- 
ble apology?  " 

Page's  reply  was  a  burst  of  tears  and  ignominious 
flight  from  the  dining-room. 

When  she  reached  her  room  she  became  hysterical, 
and  all  that  she  could  say  between  her  sobs  was :  "  The 
Colonel !  The  dear  Colonel !  " 


CHAPTER  XII 

FAILURE 

AT  the  end  of  three  months,  Page's  book  had  been 
returned  by  five  publishers. 

This,  together  with  the  life  of  excitement  she  had 
been  leading,  was  wearing  upon  her. 

She  began  to  live  in  dread  of  the  return  of  her 
manuscript.  Each  time  it  took  her  strength.  The 
fifth  time  it  arrived  was  during  the  breakfast  hour. 

The  expressman  came  to  the  basement  door.  Her 
name  was  called  out  so  that  all  present,  including  Mr. 
Dalton,  heard  it.  Instinctively  she  glanced  at  him 
but  he  did  not  look  up.  Her  hope  that  it  was  a 
package  from  home,  whereby  she  might  escape  hu- 
miliation, died  when  the  stentorian  voice  of  the  ex- 
pressman called  out  the  name  of  the  publisher  from 
whom  it  came. 

The  waitress  entered  with  the  package  and  a  large 
book  for  her  to  sign  her  name  in. 

She  did  this  with  a  trembling  hand  and  scarcely 
able  to  see  the  line  indicated  by  the  coarse  red  finger 
of  the  girl.  The  whole  dining-room  seemed  to  cen- 
ter its  attention  upon  the  operation.  When  it  was 
over  and  the  girl  had  disappeared  with  the  book  she 
got  up  from  the  table  and  staggered  as  she  walked  to 
the  door. 

Weighed  down  by  the  package,  that  felt  as  heavy 
as  a  trunk,  she  climbed  the  steps  slowly,  holding  with 
one  hand  by  the  banister. 

252 


FAILURE  253 

When  she  reached  her  room  she  entered,  closed  the 
door,  and  stood  in  the  center  of  it  dazed. 

Presently  she  walked  over  and  laid  the  package 
down  on  her  trunk.  If  she  opened  it  and  saw  that 
polite  printed  slip  she  feared  she  would  faint. 

She  took  her  seat  and  began  to  marvel  at  herself. 
Why  had  she  ever  thought  of  writing  a  book?  It 
seemed  to  her  now  a  monstrous  and  absurd  under- 
taking. A  laugh  nearly  escaped  her  lips,  but  she 
checked  it. 

Then  her  mind  centered  upon  Dalton  and  she  won- 
dered if  she  could  ever  go  in  the  dining-room  again 
and  face  him,  and  all  those  others  who  had  either 
witnessed  or  knew  of  her  humiliation.  A  shiver 
passed  over  her  and  with  another  vivid  impression  of 
Dalton's  face,  the  nausea  returned,  accompanied  by  a 
feeling  of  suffocation  that  caused  her  to  tug  at  the 
collar  of  her  dress. 

Her  eyes  were  staring  painfully  and  she  tried  to 
look  about  her  naturally,  but  failed.  Everything 
seemed  strange  to  her. 

Suddenly  intense  hatred  of  Dalton  diverted  her; 
hatred  of  his  appearance,  his  moods,  his  manner  of 
speech,  his  peculiarities,  the  especial  dishes  that  were 
prepared  for  him  and  that  he  criticised. 

He  assumed  the  form  of  a  monster,  created  to 
tyrannize  over  Mrs.  Nesbit  and  make  her  feel  small 
and  insignificant  —  a  thing  to  be  treated  lightly, 
laughed  or  sneered  at  and  —  held  up  to  ridicule.  She 
felt  that  she  would  like  to  strike  him  a  blow  with  her 
fist  squarely  in  the  face.  But  simultaneously  with 
the  thought  came  another  that  struck  terror  to  her 
heart. 

Might  not  this  man  help  her? 


254        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Other  thoughts  followed  this,  filling  her  with  ex- 
citement. 

Her  money  was  giving  out!  How  she  had  spent 
money!  She  had  not,  in  counting  on  the  success  of 
the  book,  realized  it  until  now. 

How  many  clothes  she  had  bought !  And  that  coat 
that  Mrs.  Wilton  had  persuaded  her  to  buy  because 
it  was  cheap.  She  had  given  seventy-five  dollars  for 
that  coat!  How  did  she  ever  come  to  do  such  a 
thing?  God  knew. 

Now  that  she  came  to  think  of  it  she  had  been  going 
about  rather  constantly  with  Mrs.  Wilton,  and  some- 
how, while  Mrs.  Wilton  seemed  to  spend  the  money, 
it  was  always  she  who  paid  the  bills  for  the  lunches, 
the  cabs  and  matinee  tickets.  How  her  money  had 
dwindled!  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  little  account  book 
lying  on  her  bureau,  but  shifted  again  quickly.  She 
would  not  dare  to  open  it. 

How  had  she  gotten  so  intimate  with  Mrs.  Wilton? 
Perhaps  it  was  because  Mrs.  Wilton  was  always  prom- 
ising to  introduce  her  to  publishers  and  people  who 
could  help  her  in  her  literary  efforts.  But  these  in- 
fluential people  never  materialized,  and  the  people,  men 
and  women,  whom  she  met  through  Mrs.  Wilton,  were 
self-interested  and  indifferent  to  literature. 

As  Page  thought  of  some  of  the  men  and  the  tenor 
of  their  conversations  she  blushed  and  tears  blinded 
her.  She  brushed  the  tears  aside,  however,  and  tried 
to  follow  Mrs.  Wilton's  advice  not  to  be  silly.  Mrs. 
Wilton  had  said  everything  went  in  this  world,  and 
if  you  wanted  to  really  live  you  should  ignore  what- 
ever offended  and  just  have  a  good  time. 

She  had  ans\vered  Mrs.  Wilton  that  day. 

Were  good  times,  she  had  asked  a  bit  wildly,  the 


FAILURE  255 

whole  of  life  here?  Didn't  hearts  ever  have  any 
play?  Didn't  people  want  to  be  with  you  because  it 
was  you  if  there  were  no  good  times?  Did  they  al- 
ways shut  you  off  when  the  tendrils  of  your  heart 
reached  out  for  a  little  sympathy  and  tenderness? 

And  Mrs.  Wilton  had  laughed  at  her. 

Good  times!  Page  turned  from  the  idea  now  in 
terror.  Good  times !  She  wanted  to  work  —  work ! 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  but  immediately  a  feeling 
of  desperation  overcame  her. 

Work?     For   what?     Why? 

She  pointed  dramatically  to  the  returned  manu- 
script and  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HALLUCINATIONS 

SOME  rather  reckless  weeks  followed  for  Page,  dur- 
ing which  she  tore  about  generally  at  the  heels  of 
Mrs.  Wilton. 

It  was  a  strange  world  in  which  she  found  herself 
at  times  the  central  figure  —  a  world  of  light  and  mu- 
sic, song,  movement,  rush  and  money. 

She  saw  enough  money  flying  about  on  trays  dur- 
ing one  evening  in  a  crowded  restaurant  to  relieve 
the  immediate  sufferings  of  nearly  all  the  people  she 
knew  at  home,  and  the  people  who  spent  this  money 
were  as  indifferent  to  the  expenditure  as  were  her 
people  at  home  about  the  gold-colored  leaves  that  fell 
in  the  fall  in  showers  from  the  trees. 

Life  was  entirely  heartless  and  on  the  surface  and 
no  one  seemed  to  have  time  to  stop  long  enough  to 
dig  beneath  it.  Sometimes  she  felt  that  if  they  didn't 
stop  rushing  they  would  fall  together  in  a  heap  and 
it  seemed  to  Page  that  would  be  a  relief. 

There  were  moments  when  she  hated  Mrs.  Wilton, 
but  in  the  very  instant  some  new  pleasure  would  come 
up  that  she  couldn't  resist. 

At  times  fighting  these  battles  was  wearisome  and 
fatiguing  and  she  longed  intensely  for  a  little  rest  to 
adjust  herself.  But  it  never  came  and  she  would 
often  find  herself,  as  it  were,  out  of  breath  like  a  per- 
son on  an  inclined  plane  who  can't  stop  himself. 
There  seemed  to  be  innumerable  currents  of  wind 

256 


HALLUCINATIONS  257 

blowing  her  this  way  and  that.  If  she  turned  from 
one  she  was  struck  in  the  face  by  another  and  she 
lived  like  a  being  in  fear  of  being  blown  over  a  preci- 
pice. 

She  told  Mrs.  Wilton  this  but  Mrs.  Wilton  only 
laughed  and  told  her  not  to  worry,  adding  that,  if 
she  did  fall  over  she  would  find  people  on  the  rocks 
below  to  welcome  her. 

Page  never  actually  felt  herself  a  part  of  the 
spectacle  in  which  she  figured,  nor  was  she.  She  was 
like  a  delicate  white  moth  fluttering  about  it.  A 
thought  came  to  her  that  if  she  remained  in  it  she 
might  find  herself  one  morning  lying  in  the  midst  of 
it  all,  wingless  and  singed,  as  she  had  often  seen  the 
beautiful  moths  of  the  night  before  about  an  extin- 
guished lamp. 

These  thoughts  would  produce  vague  shudders  that 
she  would  attempt  to  belittle  by  careless  gestures  of 
her  hands  or  her  shoulders.  She  experienced  so 
many  conflicting  emotions  that  at  times  she  feared  she 
might  be  going  mad. 

To  cap  the  climax  Mrs.  Wilton  borrowed  fifty  dol- 
lars of  her  and  as  usual  her  check  failed  to  arrive. 

This  fifty  dollars  had  made  a  terrible  gap  in  the 
small  amount  she  had  left. 

Page  stood  in  the  center  of  her  room  one  morning 
bathed  in  a  cold  sweat.  If  her  money  gave  out  what 
then?  Where  would  she  go?  What  would  become 
of  her?  A  sudden  thought  relieved  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. There  was  suicide!  Yes,  there  was  always 
suicide  for  one  to  turn  to.  The  thought  inspired  her. 
She  could  always  turn  to  it.  But  always  it  took  her 
strength.  If  only  there  was  someone  to  talk  to - 
someone  to  sympathize.  Someone  to  whom  she  could 


258        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

explain.  But  there  was  no  one.  Not  one  person 
appeared  to  have  time  for  anything  —  certainly  not 
to  listen  to  her. 

The  Colonel,  yes!  Page  grasped  at  this  idea  for  a 
few  moments  feverishly.  But  the  idea  died  as  she 
contemplated  it.  There  were  two  obstacles.  Two- 
thirds  of  the  time  the  Colonel  was  in  no  condition  to 
be  appealed  to  seriously,  and  then  her  pride!  And, 
besides,  what  could  the  Colonel  do?  Nothing! 

Dalton!  Always  there  was  Dalton  standing  like 
the  sphinx  in  the  desert.  She  could  appeal  to  him  — 
and  he  might  help  her ;  tell  her  what  to  do ;  how  to  go 
about  it  to  get  her  book  published.  But  by  no  flight 
of  imagination  could  she  conceive  of  Dalton  as  in  any 
sense  sympathetic.  She  shrank  from  the  idea  of  go- 
ing to  him,  and,  as  it  were,  crying  out  for  help  to  him, 
as  from  a  whip-lash.  She  almost  felt  that  Dalton  car- 
ried a  concealed  whip. 

Dave!  Another  shudder  would  pass  over  her. 
Dave,  yes,  of  course!  But  that  also  meant  surren- 
der —  defeat  —  crying  out !  Better  Dalton !  Better 
still,  she  would  say  this  aloud  —  suicide !  These 
thoughts  were  having  their  effects  —  bewildering  ef- 
fects that  she  was  conscious  of.  Yet,  she  could  not 
arouse  herself  sufficiently  to  change  them.  She  had 
become  a  part  of  New  York  and  New  York  life  and 
sometimes,  to  her  surprise,  the  strange  existence  would 
intoxicate  her  so  that  she  would  walk  the  streets  tri- 
umphantly as  though  she  had  attained  something. 
Again,  if  she  found  herself  with  an  evening  on  her 
hands,  she  would  feel  that  all  the  lights  of  the  city 
had  been  extinguished,  leaving  her  in  total  darkness. 

While  so  many  things  happened,  what  surprised 
Page  was  that  nothing  continued.  Just  as  the  serv- 


HALLUCINATIONS  259 

ants  at  the  hotel  disappeared,  people  in  the  boarding 
house  disappeared.  Always  she  was  going  about  with 
new  people  and  always  she  was  being  greeted  at  table 
by  strangers,  while  persons  who  had  been  a  part  of 
the  daily  life  of  the  house  for  weeks,  were  scarcely 
referred  to  again. 

Sometimes  she  would  wonder  what  became  of  the 
old  people  in  New  York.  It  was  very  sweet  to  be  an 
old  lady  in  Virginia,  because  there  were  quiet  porches 
to  sit  on  in  summer,  with  flowers  blooming  every- 
where in  sight;  or  bright  fires  to  sit  before,  in  a  com- 
fortable old  rocking  chair,  in  winter.  And  always 
the  young  people  came  to  tell  their  experiences,  or 
bring  things  to  show,  and  the  children  were  deferen- 
tial. And  Page  almost  wished  that  she  were  an  old 
lady  so  that  she  could  be  back  there  taking  life  quietly 
and  beautifully.  The  old  ladies  here  made  no  dis- 
tinction between  themselves  and  their  juniors:  they 
painted  and  powdered,  and  wore  fashionable  clothes 
and  plumes  and  flowrers. 

One  day  she  complained  at  table  of  the  artificiality 
of  things,  how  she  could  find  nothing  restful,  only 
excitement  and  turmoil,  and  she  was  advised  to  walk 
in  the  park. 

The  day  being  an  exceptionally  warm  and  bright 
one,  she  took  a  car  and  went  there.  But  in  spite  of 
the  numerous  leafless  trees  that  had  always  appealed 
to  her  passionately,  and  all  the  shapely  shrubs  and 
winding  paths,  rocks,  and  natural  beauty,  she  found 
little  difference.  It  seemed  to  her  that  nature  existed 
under  protest,  and  she  could  almost  fancy  that  the 
trees  were  chained  to  the  spot  underneath  the  earth 
and  were  standing  there  against  their  wills,  unhappy 
and  full  of  yearning  for  the  woods  and  forests.  She 


260       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

sat  a  long  while  looking  on,  and  observed  that  the 
wealthy  rode  rapidly  through  the  park,  as  though  es- 
caping from  it,  and  that  in  reality  it  was  a  retreat  for 
the  ignorant,  the  illiterate,  and  the  despairing.  Such 
faces  as  she  looked  into!  When  she  left  she  seemed 
to  be  departing  from  a  refuge  of  lost  souls. 

She  hurried  home  with  a  feeling  that  happiness  had 
flown  from  the  world.  Here  was  a  people  who  ap- 
parently never  looked  upward  for  the  smile  of  God. 
And  she  had  become  one  of  these  people,  a  being  in- 
capable of  abstract  ideal  contemplation,  who  fever- 
ishly awaited  each  hour  for  what  it  might  bring  to 
lead  her  away  from  self. 

She  was  no  longer  able  to  write  and  passed  the 
days  as  best  she  could.  The  amount  of  money  that 
sped  under  Mrs.  Wilton's  hypnotic  influence  caused 
her  of  late  to  avoid  her  as  often  as  possible.  But  this 
did  not  stem  her  restlessness  or  activity. 

Sometimes  she  would  slip  into  restaurants  alone, 
order  coffee,  and  sit  and  study  the  people  and  the 
scenes  going  on.  The  bold  faces  of  the  women,  the 
striking  costumes  they  wore;  the  sensual  and  gross 
or  unhealthy  countenances  of  the  men,  and  the  grace- 
ful movements  of  the  shrewd  and  not  always  polite 
waiters,  repelled  but  fascinated.  She  liked  the  odors 
of  the  dishes,  the  smell  of  the  wines,  and  aroma  of 
the  coffee  and  chocolate.  The  popping  of  champagne 
corks  excited  her  and  she  listened  for  one  —  it  was 
full  of  suggestions,  some  of  which  she  feared.  There 
were  times  when  sitting  in  such  places  alone,  she  be- 
came oblivious  to  her  surroundings  and  would  fancy 
herself  an  onlooker  in  hell,  where  in  a  few  moments 
her  feet  would  begin  to  burn.  She  would  draw  them 
under  her,  pay  her  bill,  and  walk  hurriedly  out,  look- 


HALLUCINATIONS  261 

ing  straight  ahead  of  her  but  distinctly  feeling  the 
glances  directed  upon  her. 

When  she  entered  her  room  one  night  it  was  un- 
familiar and  she  felt  an  absolute  stranger  to  herself 
as  though  she  were  someone  else. 

She  avoided  her  mirror,  undressed  in  silence  and 
got  into  bed. 

She  discovered  presently  that  her  heart  was  beating 
abnormally,  and  all  of  a  sudden  there  was  something 
terrifying  to  her  that  this  living,  palpitating  thing 
stretched  out  there  in  the  dark  was  herself.  What 
was  she?  Who  made  her?  Was  she  planned  or  was 
she  an  accident?  What  was  the  world?  She  re- 
membered some  diamonds  she  had  examined  the  pre- 
vious day  standing  before  a  shop  window.  They  now 
mystified  her.  All  those  flashing  things,  she  thought, 
buried  under  the  earth,  and  the  stars  buried  in  the 
sky.  Who  buried  them?  Why  were  they  buried 
there  —  those  beautiful  things?  Many  thousands  of 
them  were  never  seen  —  they  just  remained  there. 
The  brain  of  the  Almighty  astounded  her.  She  put 
her  brain  beside  God's  brain  and  trembled  like  a  leaf 
in  the  wind.  Did  anything,  she  asked  herself,  really 
exist  or  was  she  merely  conceiving  all  these  things  — 
the  diamonds  under  the  earth  —  the  stars  above  the 
earth  —  herself  and  God  Himself!  She  touched  her 
flesh;  first  with  one  hand  and  then  the  other;  her 
limbs,  and  again  assured  herself  of  the  beating  of  her 
heart.  It  had  grown  quieter.  Who  made  it  grow 
quieter?  Wrho  kept  it  going  on?  How  could  God 
remember  to  keep  all  the  hearts  beating  as  a  clock- 
maker  keeps  his  clocks  going?  Were  there  invisible 
attendants  of  hearts  just  as  there  were  visible  at- 
tendants of  clocks?  She  sat  up  and  peered  about  her, 


262        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

looking  for  the  attendant,  and  was  terribly  perplexed. 
She  knew  that  she  could  get  up  if  she  wanted  to  and 
move  about  and  that  alarmed  her.  To  be  a  live  thing 
that  could  get  up  and  crawl  about  under  the  bed  if  she 
liked  —  sit  in  the  corners  with  eyes  flashing  in  the 
gloom.  Also  she  could  laugh  aloud  if  she  wanted  to. 
She  did  laugh  aloud,  once,  twice,  three  times.  Then 
she  thought  that  being  dead  was  better  than  sitting 
there  laughing  aloud.  But  dead!  What  was  being 
dead?  Who  made  you  dead?  And  what  for? 
Where  was  she?  How  did  she  get  where  she  was? 
What  directed  her  steps  to  this  particular  place? 
Something  must  have  done  so.  The  most  trifling  cir- 
cumstance assumed  gigantic  proportions  and  became 
of  importance. 

All  the  while  things  outside  were  becoming  more 
unreal  than  those  inside,  and  again  she  questioned  the 
reality  of  anything  except  herself.  She  said  sud- 
denly that  anything  she  willed  to  see  she  could  see, 
and  began  to  will  to  see  things. 

First  she  commanded  a  thousand  funeral  proces- 
sions to  pass  before  her.  "  Let  there  be  children," 
she  cried  out,  "  young  girls,  old  men  and  old  women, 
all  being  carried  to  their  graves,"  and  in  an  instant 
it  was  so.  And  then  she  said,  "  Open  up  a  ball- 
room as  broad  as  the  ocean,  dress  all  the  people  in 
flowers  and  make  them  dance."  And  that  was  so. 
And  then  she  said,  "  Let  the  dancers  vanish  and  the 
ball-room  floor  become  the  ocean  and  let  there  be  a 
terrific  storm  with  waves  as  high  as  this  house." 
And  that  was  so.  And  then  she  said,  "  Bring  all  the 
vessels  of  the  waters,  large  and  small  together,  and 
sink  them  before  my  eyes.  Let  the  people  scream  and 
float  and  drown  and  the  billows  cover  them,  and  let 


HALLUCINATIONS  263 

the  heavens  catch  fire  and  burn  and  roar  with  mon- 
strous, mighty  sound,  and  let  burning  angels  drop 
into  the  roaring  ocean."  And  that  was  so. 

But  what  she  could  not  will  was  the  cooling  of  her 
burning  flesh.  She  almost  felt  that  she  was  on  fire, 
and  a  violent  pain  was  attacking  her  head  and  her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  PLEA 

PAGE'S  illness  lasted  three  weeks. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  a  pale,  feeble  convalescent, 
she  descended  one  morning  to  the  dining-room. 

It  appeared  to  her  that  Dalton  looked  kindly  at  her 
and  this  brought  a  gush  of  tears  to  her  eyes. 

When  he  left  the  dining-room  she  followed  him 
and  as  he  put  his  foot  on  the  step  leading  up  from 
the  basement  hall  she  caught  him  nervously  by  the 
sleeve. 

"  Mr.  Dalton,"  she  asked,  "may  I  speak  to  you?  " 

Dalton  turned  abruptly  and  faced  her. 

"  Certainly.  You've  been  ill,  haven't  you,  Miss 
Warwick?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  quite  so,  Mr.  Dalton." 

"Well?" 

His  voice  was  so  cold  and  sharp  it  cut  her  like  a 
knife;  also,  he  took  out  his  watch. 

"  I  shouldn't  detain  you,  Mr.  Dalton.  I  know  you 
are  in  a  hurry  —  but  —  I  thought  —  I  wondered  if 
you  would  not  —  I  wondered  if  you  might  not  advise 
me  about  my  book.  It's  come  back,  you  know,  from 
all  the  publishers  and  — " 

"  I  am  in  a  hurry  now,"  Dalton  interrupted,  "  but 
I  will  talk  to  you,  yes!  Suppose  you  come  to  my 
office."  He  got  out  a  card  and  handed  it  to  her. 
"  Say  at  two  o'clock  this  afternoon.  Will  that  suit 
you?" 

264 


THE  PLEA  265 

"Thank  you,  yes!  Any  hour  would  suit  me! 
Thank  you  very  much !  " 

She  reached  her  room,  weak  and  faint  but  quite 
elated. 

The  ordeal  hadn't  been  so  bad  after  all!  Her 
trouble  had  been  in  trying  to  put  herself  on  a  level, 
mentally,  with  Mr.  Dalton.  She  laughed  at  this.  Mr. 
Dalton,  the  head  of  a  great  newspaper,  and  she  a 
woman  —  nothing  but  a  silly,  inexperienced  Southern 
girl.  No  wonder  he  had  smiled  derisively  at  her  ef- 
forts! A  woman  needed  help  and  the  counsel  of  a 
man  —  a  big,  strong  man  like  Dalton. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  HELPING  HAND 

THE  great  office  building  was  disconcerting  to 
Page,  so  that,  as  she  was  borne  slowly  upwards  in  the 
elevator,  she  experienced  similar  feelings  to  those  she 
had  on  her  arrival  in  New  York. 

Her  heart  beat  abnormally ;  she  failed  to  hear  the 
boy  call  her  floor ;  accepted  his  rebuke  as  a  bewildered 
horse  accepts  the  whip,  and  wandered  through  the 
large  hall  in  a  half  hypnotic  condition  looking  for 
Dalton's  office. 

The  amount  of  red  tape  she  was  subjected  to  be- 
fore she  was  finally  admitted  to  his  private  room,  did 
not  serve  to  lessen  her  embarrassment. 

When  the  door  was  opened  to  her  she  passed 
through  it  with  the  feelings  of  an  actress  suffering 
from  acute  stage  fright.  To  add  to  this,  Dalton, 
seated  at  a  large  roller-top  desk  bending  over  some 
papers,  was  so  entirely  different  from  the  Mr.  Dalton 
whose  seat  was  opposite  hers  at  the  table,  that  he 
might  have  been  an  entire  stranger. 

For  a  full  moment,  while  Page  stood  beside  his 
desk,  a  little  at  his  back,  he  did  not  look  up,  and  when 
he  did,  giving  his  revolving  chair  a  sudden  turn,  she 
started. 

"  Ah !  Miss  Warwick,"  he  said,  indicating  a  chair, 
and  adding  in  somewhat  curt  tones,  "  won't  you  be 
seated?" 

"  Just  a  moment,"  he  concluded  when  she  had  done 
266 


THE  HELPING  HAND  267 

so,  and  turned  to  the  papers  he  had  been  examining. 
This  gave  Page  time  to  consider  her  embarrassment 
anew  and  become  reduced  finally  to  an  almost  helpless 
figurehead. 

"  And  now,"  said  Dalton,  suddenly  looking  up  and 
repeating  his  stereotyped  remark,  "  what  can  I  do 
for  you?  " 

It  was  as  though  Mr.  Dalton  had  entirely  forgotten 
the  appointment  and  the  reason  for  it,  so  she  recalled 
it  to  him. 

'  You  remember,  you  said  this  morning  I  might 
call  on  you  this  afternoon  in  reference  to  the  book." 

'  The  book  ?     Oh,  yes.     It's  been  returned  to  you 
-hasn't  it?" 

Page  wondered  if  Mr.  Dalton  had  forgotten  all 
she  had  said. 

"  Returned!  "  she  burst  forth,  attempting  a  laugh, 
"  it's  been  returned  five  times!  " 

"Five?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  beginning  to  lose  faith  —  that's 
why  I've  taken  the  liberty  to  trouble  you  about  it.  I 
thought  if  someone  with  influence — " 

Dalton  waved  this  with  his  hand.  "  Influence, 
Miss  Warwick,"  he  said,  "  hasn't  any  weight  whatso- 
ever with  publishers.  It's  the  story.  For  instance 
you  speak  of  me  as  a  man  of  influence.  I  suppose  I 
am,  in  a  certain  sense,  and  yet  if  I  were  to  write  a 
poor  book  there  isn't  a  publisher  in  New  York  who 
would  handle  it  —  that  is,  I  mean,  because  I  wrote  it." 

"  I  suppose,  then,  you  think  my  case  is  hopeless?  " 
Page  inquired. 

"  You  have  not  secured  a  publisher  for  your  book," 
Dalton  returned  carelessly. 

"  No,    I    haven't !     Mr.    Dalton,    do    you    think    I 


268       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

should  give  up  —  give  the  whole  thing  up?  I'm  al- 
most tempted  to  burn  the  manuscript,"  her  face 
flushed,  "  in  Mrs.  Nesbit's  kitchen  stove !  " 

"Oh!     I  wouldn't  do  that!" 

"  Well,  what  should  I  do  ?  That's  what  I've  come 
to  ask  you!  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Dalton,  I  am 
in  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  You  will  pardon  me  for 
mentioning  this,  but  I  came  to  New  York  against  the 
advice  of  all  my  relatives  and  friends,  on  a  small  sum 
of  money  that  I  sold  a  little  house  for,  and  — "  Page 
did  manufacture  the  laugh  this  time, — "  it's  about  giv- 
ing out." 

"Hadn't  you  better  return  home,"  asked  Dalton 
sharply,  "  before  it  does  ?  " 

"  And  acknowledge  my  defeat  to  everybody  ?  I 
just  couldn't."  She  wrung  her  hands.  "  I  believe 
it  would  kill  me!  I  think  I  would  rather  die  first!  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Dalton  in  a  composed 
voice,  "  it  would  all  soon  be  forgotten." 

"  I  suppose  it  would.  Don't  fancy  I  imagine  my- 
self of  so  much  importance  that  it  would  be  remem- 
bered! But  7  am  the  one  who  would  remember!  I 
would  never  be  able  to  hold  up  my  head  again  at  home. 
It's  pride  —  Virginia  pride !  " 

Dalton  smiled.  But  it  seemed  to  Page  that  he 
melted  a  bit,  and  she  felt  more  at  ease. 

"  It's  Virginia  pride,"  she  repeated  hotly,  "  and 
Virginia  pride  is  a  very  difficult  thing  to  battle  with !  " 

"  Very  well  then,  we  will  admit  that.  And  now 
let  us  see  how  we  can  get  you  out  of  the  battle.  The 
Colonel  showed  me  those  little  short  stories  of  yours 
that  he  said  had  also  been  returned  to  you.  He  asked 
me  to  read  them,  in  fact,  and  give  him  my  opinion. 
I  did  so." 


THE  HELPING  HAND  269 

^  "Well?"   Page  asked  a  little  breathlessly  as  she 
fixed  in  his  a  pair  of  eager  eyes. 

"  I  should  say  you  have  some  talent,  Miss  War- 
wick, but  it  needs  developing.  Talent  is  a  plant  that 
has  to  grow  and  grow  under  proper  conditions." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  don't  think,  if  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying 
so,  that  you  are  under  the  proper  conditions  for  your 
literary  development." 

"No?" 

"  I  am  at  Mrs.  Nesbit's  boarding  house  because  I 
got  tired  of  hotels  and  hotel  fare.  I  have  a  suite 
of  rooms  there,  my  private  bath,  I  order  what  I  want 
and  she  has  it  cooked  for  me.  In  other  words  she 
serves  my  purpose  as  a  good  housekeeper.  Now 
with  you  it's  different." 

"  I  should  say  so,"  interjected  Page,  "  shut  up 
there  in  that  little  sky-light  room." 

"Oh!  The  sky-light  room  is  all  right  —  it's  the 
environment  —  the  environment  that  I,  for  instance, 
am  entirely  on  the  outside  of,  above  if  you  like,  and 
that  you  are,  partly  your  own  fault,  right  in  the  midst 
of.  If  I  were  you  and  wanted  to  become  an  author 
I  would  first  of  all  cut  away  from  Mrs.  Nesbit's 
boarding  house  and  all  the  people  there  — •  Mrs.  Wil- 
ton, for  instance." 

If  Mr.  Dalton  had  suddenly  fired  off  a  cannon  she 
could  not  have  been  more  surprised. 

He  saw  her  amazed  look  and  continued :  "  Such  as- 
sociations only  distract  you  from  your  purpose. 
You've  been  rushing  about  a  good  deal  with  Mrs. 
Wilton  of  late,  haven't  you?  " 

"Oh!  I  have  —  I'm  ashamed  of  it!  I  haven't 
written  a  line  in  weeks,  but,  you  see,  I  got  so  dis- 


270       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

couraged.  I  believe,"  finished  Page,  making  a 
plunge,  "  I've  been  actually  reckless !  " 

"  I  believe  you  have." 

After  this  remark  silence  fell  between  them,  and 
to  Page  it  was  a  very  painful  silence  for,  while  numer- 
ous sentences  framed  themselves,  they  all  seemed  in- 
adequate and  not  one  would  come  forth. 

An  office  boy  entering  and  announcing  a  caller 
made  her  feel  that  she  must  hurry. 

"Well,  Mr.  Dalton,"  she  said,  "what  would  you 
advise  me  to  do?  " 

Dalton  handed  her  a  copy  of  the  New  York  Herald. 

"  I  have  marked  a  number  of  advertisements  here 
of  small  furnished  apartments.  I  would  take  a  cab, 
get  over  the  ground  as  quickly  as  possible,  select  one 
and  move  into  it  —  that  is,  if  you  are  sincere,  if  you 
are  positive  that  you  are  in  earnest  about  devoting 
yourself  to  becoming  an  author." 

"  I  am  in  earnest !  "  Page  cried. 

"  Very  well,  Miss  Warwick,  you  have  asked  my 
advice  and  I  have  given  it." 

"  Mr.  Dalton  —  "  Page  began. 

"Well?" 

"  Aren't  these  apartments  rather  expensive  ?  You 
see,"  the  blush  burnt  again,  "  my  money  is  giving 
out  and  —  " 

"  As  I  told  you,"  Dalton  interrupted,  "  I  have  dis- 
covered some  talent  in  your  work.  I  believe  under 
the  proper  conditions  that  talent  may  be  made  profit- 
able. I  have  a  little  of  the  gambler  in  me,  Miss  War- 
wick," Dalton  vouchsafed  a  smile,  "  in  spite  of  my 
puritanical  bringing  up,  and  provided  you  work  un- 
der my  advice  and  guidance,  I'll  back  your  venture. 
If  your  money  gives  out  before  you  have  received 


THE  HELPING  HAND  271 

payment  for  publications,  I'll  see  that  you  are  not  in 
the  street." 

Page  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Mr.  Dalton,"  she  exclaimed  in  an  almost  wild 
cry,  "  you  think  that  well  of  my  work,  you  really 
think  it  would  be  safe  for  you  to  risk  something  on 
my  effort?  That  seems  so  wonderful,  I  can't  believe 
it!" 

'  You  Southerners  stand  in  such  awe  of  a  little 
money  invested,"  said  Mr.  Dalton,  "  it  amuses  one." 

Then  he  rose  and  put  his  hand  on  his  bell. 

"  Order  a  cab  for  this  lady,"  he  said  when  it  was 
responded  to. 

He  was  holding  the  Herald  and  as  the  boy  left  he 
handed  it  to  her. 

"  You  can  just  look  through  this  and  stop  at  what- 
ever seems  to  appeal  to  you  as  you  drive  along. 
And  —  "  Dalton  hesitated,  "if  I  were  in  your  place, 
Miss  Warwick,  I  would  not  discuss  my  plans  in  the 
boarding  house.  I  will  speak  to  Mrs.  Nesbit  for 
you  and  as  far  as  the  rest,  I  would  not,  including  the 
Colonel  and  Mrs.  Wilton,  take  any  one  into  my  confi- 
dence. You  are  starting  out  on  a  new  venture  and 
too  many  advisers  are  not  beneficial.  Good-by.  By 
to-morrow  afternoon  you  ought  to  be  located  and  you 
can  mail  your  new  address  to  me  here." 

Page  was  about  to  speak  when  he  walked  past  her 
and  opened  the  door. 

She  looked  up  as  she  passed  through,  trying  to  ex- 
press to  him  her  gratitude  in  her  glowing  eyes,  but 
Dalton  was  looking  over  her  head  at  the  visitor  who 
awaited  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  DREAM   REALIZED 

"WHERE  is  Miss  Warwick?"  asked  the  Colonel 
the  following  evening.  "  I  haven't  seen  her  at  table 
for  several  meals." 

"  Miss  Warwick  has  moved !  "  announced  Miss  Jen- 
kins in  a  scream. 

"Moved?"  the  Colonel  exclaimed,  amazed. 

"When?" 

"This  morning!  It  was  all  quite  unexpected,  and 
I  may  add,"  Miss  Jenkins  was  getting  excited,  "  a  bit 
mysterious !  " 

"  Oh !  She  told  everybody  good-by  at  breakfast," 
Mrs.  Wilton  exclaimed  carelessly.  "  She's  taken  a 
flat ;  she  gave  me  the  address  —  she's  going  to  devote 
herself  to  work,  she  said,  and  the  boarding  house  was 
not  the  proper  environment."  Mrs.  Wilton  ended  by 
giving  the  dining-room  a  supercilious  smile. 

"  Miss  Warwick  left  good-by  for  you,  Colonel," 
said  Mrs.  Nesbit,  who  had  entered,  "  and  this  card. 
She  said  to  tell  you  she  hoped  you  would  come  to  see 
her.  She  was  afraid  to  go  to  your  door  to  say 
good-by,  she  said,  for  fear  she'd  break  down." 

As  the  Colonel  took  the  card  he  cast  a  furtive 
glance  at  Dalton. 

"  This  is  indeed,"  he  declared,  ignoring  Mrs.  Nes- 
bit's  remarks  and  scanning  the  card,  "  a  surprise." 

"  It  almost  took  my  breath  away !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Jenkins. 

272 


THE  DREAM  REALIZED  373 

"  Oh!  She'll  be  back  at  the  end  of  a  month  if  she 
doesn't  die  of  the  blues  in  the  meantime ! "  Mrs.  Wil- 
ton laughed. 

Mr.  Dalton,  who  had  finished  his  dinner,  rose  and 
left  the  room.  The  Colonel's  eyes  followed  his  back 
and  then  returned  abstractedly  to  his  plate. 

While  this  scene  in  her  behalf  was  being  enacted, 
Page  was  moving  about  her  little  furnished  flat,  rev- 
eling in  new  emotions. 

She  had  taken  her  own  dinner  at  a  French  table 
d'hote  place  near  by,  that  Mr.  Dalton  had  recom- 
mended in  a  note,  where  there  was  music  and  wine. 

The  place  had  been  crowded  with  gay,  careless 
looking  people  and  Page  had  taken  her  place  among 
them,  a  full-fledged  Bohemian. 

She  smiled  contentedly  at  how  bold  and  self-con- 
fident she  was  becoming. 

And  why  not?  Was  she  not  on  the  very  verge  of 
realizing  her  long  deferred  dream!  And  how  nat- 
urally it  had  all  come  about  just  as  though  it  had 
been  planned.  She  was  like  one  who  had  climbed 
a  rugged  road,  been  torn  by  briars  and  who  suddenly 
found  himself  in  a  beautiful  oasis,  among  blooming 
flowers. 

The  little  place  belonged  to  a  writer  who  was  travel- 
ing abroad  and  if  she  had  furnished  it  herself  it 
could  not  possibly  have  suited  her  better.  It  was  a 
perfect  little  nest  —  Page  had  exclaimed  —  a  dream ! 

Even  the  books  had  been  left.  Between  the  writ- 
ing hours  how  she  would  read!  It  was  like  having 
a  library  all  her  own.  And  what  beautiful  books 
some  of  them  were  —  what  rare  bindings ! 

Page  opened  them  feverishly  and  read  some  of  the 
inscriptions.  This  Mr.  Ernest  Noble  must  be  a  man 


274       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

of  cultivation  and  taste  and  certainly  he  had  warm, 
appreciative  friends.  Page  wondered  if  she  would 
ever  have  her  own  place  and  be  thus  remembered  and 
recognized. 

Mrs.  Wilton  had  suggested  that  she  might  be 
lonely.  Lonely!  Could  anyone  be  lonely  in  heaven! 

She  laughed  brightly  and  continued  to  look  at 
things,  lifting  curtains,  peering  in  drawers  and  even 
under  things.  The  kitchen.  What  a  perfect  darling! 
She  wished  her  old  Mammy  could  come  on  and  be 
with  her.  Wouldn't  Mammy  rejoice  when  she  be- 
came famous  and  had  everybody  talking  about  her. 
Page  decided  the  very  moment  she  had  money  to  beg 
her  to  come  —  to  just  beg  her! 

The  next  morning  she  was  even  more  elated.  Re- 
freshed by  a  peaceful  sleep,  she  again  moved  about  re- 
joicing in  everything.  The  hours  passed  rapidly. 

In  the  evening  when  she  had  arranged  the  place  to 
her  taste  she  lay  down  on  the  couch  and  fell  to  think- 
ing of  Dalton.  What  an  injustice,  what  a  great  in- 
justice—  her  cheeks  burned  at  the  thought — 'She  had 
done  this  man !  Why,  Mr.  Dalton  had  been  magnani- 
mous !  That  showed  Aunt  Constance  was  right  — 
you  must  never  come  to  conclusions  too  quickly  and 
never  judge  by  appearance.  How  often  Aunt  Con- 
stance had  told  her  that. 

Aunt  Constance!  This  gave  Page  a  little  pang  but 
she  immediately  settled  with  her  conscience  by  declar- 
ing when  Mammy  came  Aunt  Constance  could  come 
on  a  visit !  Wouldn't  they  all  have  to  back  water  and 
be  proud  of  her !  She  would  make  them  —  that  was 
her  business  —  why  she  was  in  the  very  place !  Al- 
ready she  was  a  somebody.  Hadn't  her  work  been 


THE  DREAM  REALIZED  275 

recognized  by  a  competent  critic,  and  —  she  should 
say  so  —  quite  substantially,  since  it  was  to  be  backed 
on  its  own  merits. 

Yes,  she  had  done  Mr.  Dal  ton  an  injustice,  that 
would  always  be  her  one  regret.  All  she  could  do 
was  to  make  up  by  working  hard. 

She  would  tell  him  so  when  he  called  this  evening. 
He  was  going  to  tell  her  what  she  must  do,  how  to 
carry  out  the  whole  plan  of  becoming  a  writer.  She 
would  tell  him  what  an  obedient  pupil  she  would  be, 
how  she  would  labor  day  and  night  so  as  not  to  dis- 
appoint him. 

Old  Major  Henry  used  to  say  if  a  man  puts  his 
hand  in  his  pocket  for  you  that  was  real  friendship. 
Mr.  Dalton  had  done  that  for  her  —  that  is,  he  had 
offered  to  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for  her. 

Tears  filled  her  eyes  and  she  lay  for  a  while  bathed 
in  contrite  yet  pleasurable  emotions  until  it  was  time 
to  start  to  the  restaurant  for  dinner. 

When  she  returned  she  took  her  seat  at  the  window 
and  sat  looking  out,  feeling  herself  in  a  kind  of  dream. 

A  light  rain,  that  she  had  anticipated  from  the 
dampness  of  the  night  air  and  the  sudden  disappear- 
ance of  the  moon  as  she  hurried  home,  began  to  fall, 
and  a  small  tree,  beginning  to  grow  tiny  leaves,  swayed 
rhythmically.  There  was  a  cab  opposite.  It  had 
been  standing  there  a  long  while,  for  she  noticed  it 
before  she  went  out.  It  was  a  kind  of  relief  to  her 
when  two  ladies  emerged  from  a  house  and  entering 
the  cab  were  driven  away. 

That  seemed  to  begin  the  night  for  her  and,  rising, 
she  drew  down  the  shades  and  lit  the  gas. 

She  was  about  to  enter  the  adjoining  room  to  re- 


376       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

arrange  her  toilet  in  anticipation  of  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Dalton,  when  a  ring  on  the  little  electric  bell  arrested 
her. 

Turning   with   a   quick   gesture   to   the   door,    she 
opened  it  and  faced  David  Lee. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A    CLASHING    OF    WILLS 

IT  was  not  the  David  Lee  that  Page  had  known  all 
her  life,  but  an  animal  man  in  whom  ten  thousand 
devils  had  been  let  loose. 

His  face  was  that  of  a  corpse  suddenly  sprung  out 
of  the  grave ;  his  eyes  were  on  fire ;  his  nostrils  dilated ; 
his  teeth  set;  his  jaw  was  a  piece  of  iron. 

She  trembled  and  cowered  beneath  his  glance  like 
a  frightened  hunting  dog  beneath  the  uplifted  whip. 

He  pushed  her  aside  and  entered,  looking  about  him 
as  one  suddenly  bewildered.  Suddenly  a  vivid  flush 
leaped  into  his  face  and  a  vein  stood  out  on  his  fore- 
head. He  swayed  slightly  and  then  stood  gazing 
around  like  one  recovering  consciousness. 

Finally  his  eyes  ceased  to  stray  about  and  became 
focused  on  her. 

"  Dave !  "  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath,  "  don't 
stare  at  me  that  way !  You  look  terrible  —  don't,  I 
tell  you !  "  She  covered  her  eyes  with  one  arm. 

He  caught  her  wrist  in  a  fierce  grip,  bent  her  arm 
down,  and  still  stared  at  her. 

"  Don't,"  she  repeated,  "  don't  look  at  me  like  that! 
Why  do  you  stare  at  me  so?  " 

"  I  want  to  see,"  he  spoke  slowly  in  a  labored, 
strained  voice,  between  partly  clenched  teeth,  "if  it 
really  is  you."  His  grip  tightened.  "  It  can't  be ! " 
His  eyes  strayed  about  and  again  rested  fiercely  on  her 
face.  "  I  don't  recognize  you !  " 

277 


278       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  You  do!  You  know  it  is  I!  Don't  stare  at  me 
that  way !  "  She  was  almost  screaming. 

"  I  don't  know  it  is  you !  I  may  have  gone  mad !  " 
She  winced  under  the  pressure  of  his  fingers.  He 
saw  it  and  released  her. 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  this  place;  tell  me?  " 

"  I  came  here  to  write !  "  she  burst  forth.  "  I  will 
explain  everything  to  you!  But  how  did  you  know 
I  was  here  —  what  brought  you  here  to-night?" 

"  A  telegram  from  the  Colonel  brought  me !  But 
what  does  it  matter  what  brought  me?  I  am  here. 
Answer  my  question  or,"  his  eyes  flashed,  "  I  tell  you 
frankly  I  may  not  be  responsible  for  what  I  do !  " 

She  laid  her  hand  persuasively  on  his  sleeve. 
"  Dave,  you're  excited  —  " 

He  brushed  her  hand  aside  and  laughed. 

"  Excited !  "  He  laughed  again.  "  Your  word  is 
mild!" 

She  attempted  levity  and  joined  a  nervous  laugh 
with  his.  "  You  might  be  preparing  to  murder  me !  " 
she  exclaimed  and  tossed  her  head  insolently. 

The  gesture  infuriated  him  and  the  flush  receded 
from  his  face,  leaving  it  like  a  dull  pallid  piece  of  yel- 
low marble.  It  seemed  to  Page  that  even  the  eyes 
paled  till  they  looked  like  fading  lights. 

"  I  have  asked  you  a  question,  Page,  answer  me ! 
What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  answered  you  —  I  told  you  —  I'm  here  to 
write !  " 

"  Why  in  this  place  ?  Why  couldn't  you  write  in 
the  place  you  lived?  " 

"  It  was  not  suited  to  a  writer  —  not  the  proper  en- 
vironment !  " 

"Why?"     His  eyes  flashed  and  a  sudden  paralyz- 


A  CLASHING  OF  WILLS  279 

ing  anguish  gripped  her,  as  she  read  accusation  in 
them. 

"  I  have  told  you  the  truth !  "  she  flung  at  him. 

"  And  I  suppose  you  meant  to  keep  this  truth  a 
secret  —  live  a  lie  to  us  all!  But  the  Colonel,  God 
bless  him,  circumvented  that  and  I  am  here!  I 
couldn't  come,  but  I  am  here!  I  make  my 
speech  to-morrow  morning  in  Fielding's  behalf 
to  the  jury  —  my  every  thought  should  be  on 
that !  But  when  I  got  that  telegram  from  the  Colonel 
that  I  might  be  needed,  with  a  human  life  at  stake  — 
I  came  and  it  seems  I  am  needed !  " 

He  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder,  but  she  freed 
herself. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mean!  I  mean  what  have  you  been  doing  since 
you  came  here  ?  How  long  have  you  been  here  —  I 
forgot  to  ask  that  —  whom  have  you  seen  ?  " 

"  No  one !  I  came  here  only  yesterday  and  I  have 
seen  no  one  —  I  have  been  absolutely  alone." 

"  Thank  God !  "  he  breathed,  and  his  arms  went 
out  to  her.  "  Come  away  with  me  at  once,  now,  this 
instant  —  come  Page !  " 

She  stepped  back  haughtily,  "  You  ask  me  the 
impossible,  Dave!" 

"Why?  Why  is  it  impossible?  What  is  there  to 
hold  you?" 

"That  which  brought  me  here  is  to  hold  me! 
Why  should  I,  at  a  word  from  you,  sacrifice  my  en- 
tire future?  Why?" 

"  Because  you  can't  stay  here  —  not  another  day, 
not  another  hour  —  it's  impossible!  I  will  wait  for 
you  outside  —  I  have  a  cab  there.  And,  Page,  do  you 
understand,  darling,  you  must  hurry!  I  must  take 


280       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

the  nine  o'clock  train  back  to-night,  must,  you  know, 
to  save  Fielding  from  the  gallows!  Only  my  speech 
to  the  jury — I  have  it  here,"  he  tapped  his  breast 
pocket,  "  can  save  him !  You  understand,  you  must 
hurry  —  I  will  go  now  —  there  isn't  a  moment's  time 
to  lose!  Hurry!" 

He  turned,  staggering  slightly  like  a  drunken  man 
to  the  door,  but  she  sprang  past  him  and  put  herself  be- 
tween it  and  him. 

"  Dave,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  do  not  realize  what 
you  are  saying!  Do  you  mean  that  you  expect  me 
to  leave  this  place  that  fate  has,  at  last,  in  answer  to 
my  prayers,  thrust  upon  me,  at  a  word  from  you? 
Am  I  to  give  up  this  splendid  chance  to  at  last  settle 
down  to  write,  this  great  opportunity  to  be  helped  to 
independence  —  possibly  to  fame  ?  " 

He  caught  her  hand  and  swung  her  to  the  center 
of  the  room  as  in  a  dance. 

"  Page,"  he  cried,  "  it  is  you  who  do  not  under- 
stand what  you  are  saying!  Are  you  an  angel,  are 
you  blind,  or  are  you  a  wicked  woman  deceiving  me? 
Don't  you  understand  this  man?  Can't  you  see  that 
all  his  promises  to  help  you  to  become  a  writer  are 
self-interested?  Can't  you  see  that  this  place  is  a 
net  in  which  you  have  been  trapped  ?  " 

For  a  moment  she  stared  at  him  and  then  burst 
forth  angrily :  "  You  are  doing  a  good  man  a  great 
injustice,  Dave!  I  know  him  —  you  don't!"  She 
again  stared  at  him  and  then  approached  him  timidly, 
looking  curiously  into  his  agonized  bloodshot  eyes. 

"  It's  jealousy,"  she  cried.  "  I  believe  you  are 
jealous  of  Mr.  Dalton!  " 

For  one  brief  instant  hatred  of  her,  and  her  sex, 
clouded  his  brain. 


A  CLASHING  OF  WILLS  281 

"  Jealous !  I  am  jealous !  Why  should  I  not  be 
jealous!  Jealous?  You  do  not  know  the  meaning 
of  the  word  or  how  since  I  entered  this  place  jealousy 
has  burned  a  hole  in  my  soul.  I  was  jealous  every 
time  I  thought  of  you  sitting  at  table  opposite  that 
man!  Jealous!  Why,  great  God,  why  not,  since  I 
love  you!  Oh!  my  Savior,  but  it  is  not  that!  I 
might  be  jealous  and  if  it  meant  my  death  and  was 
for  your  good,  even  the  realization  of  your  ambitions 
at  my  expense,  I  could  with  my  own  hand  lay  yours 
in  another  man's  if  that  man  were  offering  you  an 
honorable  assistance!  Jealous!  Ah!  The  madness 
of  my  jealousy,  but  it  is  not  that,  it  is  you  —  your 
life!  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  doing!  You 
do  not  know  the  danger  you  are  in!  Let  me  tell  you 
that  you  are  standing  on  the  very  verge  of  a  preci- 
pice —  I  heard  it  and  I  ran  to  save  you !  Come 
away !  " 

"No!  I  will  not!  I  came  here  with  a  purpose 
and  I  mean  to  fulfill  it!  I  have  my  chance  and  I  am 
not  going  to  give  it  up.  I  have  started  in  on  the 
career  of  an  artist  and  I  am  not  going  to  forsake  it!  " 

"  It  is  not  your  career  as  an  artist  that  is  influencing 
you,"  he  retorted  in  a  flash,  "you  are  influenced, 
blinded,  hypnotized  by  this  man!  If  you  are  an 
artist  you  can  write  anywhere !  You  could  have  writ- 
ten at  home  or  in  your  little  room  at  the  boarding 
house!  Go  back  there  if  you  choose!  Go  back  to  it! 
I  ask  nothing  more  than  that  —  that  you  leave  this 
place !  That  is  all !  Will  you  ?  " 

"  No !  "  Page  exclaimed  in  a  low,  emphatic  voice. 
"  The  hour  is  at  hand  that  I  have  dreamed  of  for 
years!  I  am  not  going  to  sacrifice  it  —  give  up  my 
dream  even  for  you !  " 


282        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"Do  you  know  why?"  He  bent  down  and  put 
his  haggard,  tortured  face  close  to  hers.  "  Because 
all  your  life,  your  subconscious  self  has  been  subject 
to  the  beckoning  finger  of  evil !  " 

"Stop!" 

"  I  won't  stop !  That's  why  you  left  home  and 
came  to  New  York  —  that's  why  you  are  here!  Even 
before  you  came  to  New  York  hadn't  you  sinned  in 
the  sight  of  God  and  in  my  sight?  " 

"  Dave,  how  do  you  dare  to  speak  to  me  like  that?  " 
she  asked,  her  own  eyes  ablaze.  "  What  do  you 
mean  by  saying  such  a  thing !  " 

"  I  say  it  because  it's  true !  Because  you  received 
and  reveled  in  sinful  kisses  from  my  lips  —  sinful  be- 
cause you  never  loved  me !  " 

"That  is  not  true!" 

"  Then  prove  it !  Tell  me  that  I  am  a  liar  and 
that  you  are  good  and  sweet  and  pure  —  the  angel  of 
my  dreams  and  all  my  hopes!  Prove  it!  If  all  that 
brought  you  here  was  to  write,  go  back  home  and 
write  there!  An  artist  can  write  anywhere,  in  an  at- 
tic, in  a  cellar,  in  mid-ocean,  or  on  the  top  of  a  moun- 
tain crag !  "  He  waved  his  hand.  "  What  has  this 
place  to  do  with  the  things  you  intended  or  intend  to 
write  about?  What  has  this  to  do  with  Virginia  and 
the  sacred,  tragic  picture  you  vowed  to  give  the  world  ? 
Was  this  place  necessary  before  you  could  dip  your 
pen  in  ink  for  those  pictures  already  burnt  into  your 
brain?  Are  these  little  cramped-up  rooms  necessary 
to  those  grand  pictures?  Are  these  hangings,  these 
curtains,  this  couch,  a  background  for  them?  Tear 
them  down  as  you  did  your  little  house,  build  a  bon- 
fire of  them,  and  if  you  are  an  artist  you  can  write 
all  the  same!  Everything  in  this  room  is  a  lie! 


A  CLASHING  OF  WILLS  283 

This  drapery,"  he  cried,  leaping  to  a  portiere  and  tear- 
ing at  it  till  the  fastening  gave  way,  "  is  a  lie !  This 
vase,"  he  pushed  one  over,  "  is  a  lie!  And  now  that 
I  have  told  you,  unless  you  return  home  with  me,  you 
yourself  are  a  living  lie !  " 

"  Dave,"  she  caught  at  his  arm,  "  have  you  gone 
mad?" 

;'  Yes,  I  have  gone  mad,  but  not  for  the  first  time ! 
Over  and  over  my  love  for  you  has  driven  me  mad, 
but  unless  you  leave  this  place  to-night  —  to-night, 
do  you  understand,  I  will  know  that  you  have  not 
been  worth  it!  " 

The  striking  of  the  clock  caused  him  to  start  as 
from  a  pistol  shot.  He  nervously  took  out  his  watch 
and  looked  at  it.  "  I  must  go,"  he  said  under  his 
breath,  "  I  must  catch  that  train  —  if  a  human  life 
wasn't  at  stake  —  not  even  that  —  if  Fielding's  life 
wasn't  at  stake,  I  would  not  go!  I  would  stay  here, 
wait  for  that  man  to  appear  and  tell  him  before  you 
what  he  is  and  then  kill  him  as  Fielding  Peyton  killed 
Robert  Hughes!  But  I  can't  stay  —  I've  got  to  go! 
Page !  I  ask  you  once  more,  leave  this  place  with 
me!  Will  you?" 

"  No !  I  won't !     You  must  give  me  time !  " 

"  Time  with  the  lion  growling  at  your  door !  Time ! 
No !  You  must  decide  now,  this  instant ! "  He 
caught  her  by  the  shoulder.  "  What  is  your  answer? 
It  is  for  home  and  a  life  of  honor  or  this  place  and 
a  life  of  dishonor!  No,  you  cannot  protest,  it  has 
reached  that  point !  It  is  that  man  or  me,  for,  believe 
me,  if  I  leave  you  here  to-night,  you  will  never  look 
upon  my  face  again!  I  mean  it  and  I  can't  wait- 
have  got  to  go !  What  is  it?  Yes  or  no!" 

"Dave!" 


284       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  Answer  me !  " 

"  How  can  I  ?  Is  it  fair  to  put  me  to  such  a  test  ? 
It  is  my  own  life  I  am  clinging  to,  the  life  that  calls 
me,  that  always  has;  the  life  that  made  me  leave  home 
and  friends  and  relatives  —  the  life  of  freedom  and 
self!  I  can't  go  back  to  those  old  influences  —  that 
old  repression!  It  means  slavery  to  me  —  the  en- 
slaving of  my  soul  —  I  can't  do  it !  Don't  you  un- 
derstand? Can't  you  understand?  My  answer  is 
no !  I  won't  go !  I  want  my  freedom !  " 

"  Then  have  it,"  Dave  cried  in  a  loud  voice ;  "  take 
it,  do  with  it  as  you  like!  Do  with  your  brain  and 
body  as  you  will,  but  let  me  tell  you  this:  a  thousand 
daggers  are  lying  in  wait  to  plunge  into  the  soul  you 
are  giving  in  exchange!  Good-by,  Page!  You  have 
broken  my  heart,  now  break  your  own !  " 

He  turned  and  fled,  not  waiting  for  the  elevator  but 
tearing  down  the  steps  like  a  maniac. 

"  Catch  that  train  for  me,"  he  said  breathlessly  to 
the  driver,  a  powerful  black  negro. 

"  Boss,"  said  the  man,  "  you  is  too  late  to  kotch 
dat  train.  I  got  to  drive  you  to  de  elevated  and  put 
you  in  dat !  " 

"  All  right,"  said  Dave  helplessly,  "  do  what  is  best 
for  me  and  name  your  price !  " 

"  I  aint  guine  overcharge  you,  Boss ! "  said  the 
man,  hurrying  to  his  seat. 

"  Dat  gent'man  got  blood  in  his  eyes,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "I  guine  git  him  to  dat  train." 

And  the  horses  under  a  sharp  lash  swept  into  a  gal- 
lop. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TEMPTATION 

As  the  door  closed  on  Dave,  Page  made  one  leap 
to  it,  threw  it  open  and  scanned  the  deserted  hall  with 
startled  eyes.  Then  she  closed  it  and  stood  perfectly 
still  with  her  hands  clasped  in  front  of  her. 

"  Dave,"  she  whispered  under  her  breath,  then  in 
a  louder  voice,  "  Dave !  " 

She  again  stared  at  the  door.  "  I've  lost  him  — 
lost  his  love  —  thrown  it  away!  " 

As  her  voice  died  away  the  silence  of  the  room 
gripped  her.  She  glanced  at  the  loosened  hangings; 
the  fallen  vase;  the  scattered  flowers;  and  her  heart 
leaped.  There  was  something  sublime  in  the  fury 
of  this  outraged  heart  that  had  exploded,  as  it  were, 
with  a  great  crash  and  destroyed  things.  She  saw 
the  man  darting  about  the  room  as  the  lightning  plays 
in  a  forest,  bent  upon  destruction  —  striking  at  ran- 
dom. For  one  brief  instant  he  appeared  supreme  — 
supreme  in  wrath  —  something  to  be  feared.  And 
then  in  another  instant  he  was  Dave,  Dave  who  had 
loved  her,  worshiped  her  all  his  life,  ignoring  that 
love  and  self,  flying  to  the  friend  in  trouble.  She 
thought  of  the  speech  in  his  pocket,  a  scintillating  off- 
spring of  his  brain,  and  how  with  it  he  would  tear 
down  established  laws  as  ruthlessly  as  he  had  torn 
down  the  things  in  this  room,  to  free  a  guilty  man 
and  take  him  from  prison  safe  —  safe  to  his  home 

285 


286       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

and  those  who,  in  spite  of  what  he  had  done,  would 
still  love  him! 

Her  throat  swelled  with  pride  as  she  stood  erect 
with  lifted  head  and  triumphed  in  Dave. 

But  the  next  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
suffocating.  "  I  am  dying,"  she  said  quietly  under 
her  breath,  "  I  believe  I  am  going  to  die !  Dave ! 
Do  you  hear  me  —  I  believe  I'm  going  to  die !  Come 
back  to  me  —  everything  is  getting  black  before  me 
• —  Dave  come  back  to  me  —  I  want  to  tell  you  —  " 

There  was  a  light  knock  on  the  door  and  she 
started,  recovering  from  the  faint  that  was  overcom- 
ing her. 

It  was  Dalton,  she  knew  that,  and  placed  her  hand 
over  her  heart  that  suddenly  leaped  and  beat  wildly. 

She  was  standing  thus  when  the  knock  was  re- 
peated. 

"Come  in!"  she  called  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
her  voice  was  a  scream. 

Dalton  entered. 

He  was  in  evening  clothes,  cold,  placid,  correct. 
For  the  first  time  she  actually  appreciated  the  physical 
charm  of  the  man.  Always  it  had  been  eclipsed  by 
her  deference  to  his  somewhat  austere  personality. 
But  she  saw  him  distinctly  now,  an  unusual  man,  from 
the  physical  standpoint  alone;  also  a  man  at  his  best, 
clothed  to  perfection  —  equipped,  as  it  were,  to 
dazzle. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  advancing  leisurely,  "  how  are  you 
getting  along?" 

For  a  full  moment  she  stared  at  him  and  then  burst 
forth  irrelevantly :  "  I've  had  a  visitor !  " 

Dalton  glanced  about  him  with  a  smile.  "  From 
the  appearance  of  things  a  rather  violent  one,  I  should 


TEMPTATION  287 

say.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  did  not  wish  to  have  you 
disturbed  while  adjusting  yourself  to  new  conditions 
—  an  adjustment  so  important  to  your  future." 

Page  gazed  upon  him  surprised  by  his  composure. 
"  It's  dreadful,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  hardly  know  how 
to  explain  —  I  — " 

"  It  is  nothing,"  Dalton  remarked  carelessly,  "ex- 
cept in  so  far  as  it  may  have  upset  you.  Don't  give 
it  a  thought,"  he  added.  "  Let  it  be  an  incident  in 
your  life  which  you  must  put  to  pen."  He  smiled 
again  as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  hanging  draperies. 

"Who  was  your  visitor?"  he  asked  indifferently, 
as  they  seated  themselves  and  a  new  Mr.  Dalton  was 
born  to  Page  —  a  man  she  might  as  well  have  met 
for  the  first  time. 

"  Mr.  Lee,"  she  answered,  "  the  gentleman  you  met 
at  Mrs.  Nesbit's!" 

"  Yes?  "  He  bent  forward  and  restored  a  vase  to 
a  table.  "  It  must  have  been  a  great  scene  —  dra- 
matic. As  I  said  just  now,  you  should  utilize  it  in  a 
book.  But  for  the  present,  I  would  advise  you  to 
forget  it." 

There  was  a  sharp  tone  of  command  in  his  words 
that  caused  her  heart  to  leap. 

"  Mr.  Lee  is  a  very  old  friend,  Mr.  Dalton,"  she 
protested  nervously,  "  and  it  isn't  so  easy  to  forget 
what  occurred  here  this  evening.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
he  doesn't  approve  of  the  independent  step  I  have 
taken,"  she  tried  to  smile,  "  in  fact  he  disapproves 
of  it!  I'm  afraid,"  she  concluded,  looking  helplessly 
at  him,  "  that  I  will  have  to  give  up  here  and  return 
home!" 

"On  account  of  a  little  opposition,  this  incident? 
That  is  absurd.  Get  absorbed  in  your  work  the  first 


thing  to-morrow  morning  and  by  evening  you  will 
have  forgotten  all  about  it.  I've  been  doing  a  little 
editing  for  you,"  he  took  a  package  up  that  he  had 
laid  on  the  table,  "  on  these  stories." 

A  light  broke  over  Page's  countenance. 

"Oh!     Have  you?"  she  asked. 

"  They  are  not  bad.  A  little  rewriting,  a  little 
more  work,  and  I  think  you  can  dispose  of  them." 

"Oh!  Do  you?" 

"I  do;  why  not?" 

"  Mr.  Dalton,  please  do  not  tell  me  that  —  please 
do  not  suggest  hope  to  me.  I'm  afraid  I've  got  to 
throw  up  everything  —  all  my  hopes  and  dreams,  and 
go  home !  I'm  afraid  I've  got  to !  " 

"  That  is  absurd,"  Dalton  repeated  irritably. 

"  I  know  it  seems  absurd,"  she  answered,  "  but  — 

Dalton  interrupted  her.  "  It  is  absurd,"  he  said 
with  the  same  imperative  sharpness  of  tone  that  had 
caused  her  heart  to  leap. 

"  Here  now,"  eyeing  her  closely,  "  is  the  whole 
situation.  In  your  own  behalf  you  take  an  independ- 
ent step  —  always  a  crime  —  in  self -advancement; 
break  away  from  conditions  that  handicapped  you 
and  enter  into  others  that  will  further  your  aims.  In 
other  words,  you  come  into,  to  put  it  briefly,  the  proper 
environment  for  your  own  welfare.  Now  what  hap- 
pens? An  old  busy-body,  probably,  sends  a  telegram; 
an  excitable  youngster,  because  he  happens  to  be  in 
love  with  you,  and  for  that  reason  feels  entitled  to 
interfere,  arrives,  sees  you  under  the  new  conditions, 
tries  to  coerce  you,  hold  you  to  the  old  and  finally  — 
you  will  pardon  this  —  in  a  rather  savage  fashion  at- 
tempts to  demolish  what  you  are  seeking  to  build  up. 
Is  that  fair?" 


TEMPTATION  289 

"  It  may  not  be,  Mr.  Dalton ;  I  don't  suppose  it  is, 
but  I  can't  be  quite  so  independent  as  you  feel  I 
should  be  of  the  opinion  of  others."  A  half  nervous 
laugh  escaped  her.  "I  am  —  in  fact,  I  am  afraid 
that  I  am  a  good  deal  of  a  coward!  Since  this  visit 
of  Mr.  Lee,  I  tell  you  frankly,  my  strength  to  keep 
on  has  all  forsaken  me.  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  got  the 
courage  to  —  well,  keep  it  up !  "  Her  lips  trembled. 

"Keep  what  up?"  Dalton  asked,  his  voice  discon- 
certingly sharp. 

"  This ! "  She  waved  her  hands.  "  It  seems  I 
would  just  be  flying  in  the  face  of  everybody  at  home 
and  disgracing  them ! '/ 

Dalton  laughed. 

"  It  really  is  so!  "  she  added  apologetically. 

"  You  must  not  think  of  others,  but  of  your  work." 
His  voice  was  calm  now,  persuasive  even,  and  again 
Page  wondered  if  it  really  was  Mr.  Dalton.  "  The 
artist's  life  is  not  an  easy  one.  The  ability  to  live  it, 
however,  comes  with  practice.  You  must  live  for 
others  and  the  world,  Miss  Warwick,  or  for  yourself 
and  art.  You  cannot  do  both.  I  thought  you  had 
decided  all  that.  I  thought  it  was  understood  when 
you  came  to  me  for  advice  and  agreed  to  follow  my 
instructions.  I  am  not  a  man  who  wastes  his  time, 
Miss  Warwick,  or  one  to  be  trifled  with." 

He  cut  her  with  a  sharp  glance  of  his  eyes,  one 
that  she  was  familiar  with,  and  the  color  receded  from 
her  flushed  cheeks. 

"  I  understand  that,  Mr.  Dalton,  and  I  am  terribly 
embarrassed  and  distressed ! "  She  sprang  to  her 
feet.  "  But  I  must  go  home." 

A  slight  sneer  crossed  Dalton's  lips  as  he  impera- 
tively motioned  her  to  her  seat. 


290       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  When  you  moved  into  this  place,"  he  said  as  she 
obediently  took  it,  "  you  left  your  past  behind.  You 
may  not  have  realized  this,  but  you  did.  Your  life 
in  Virginia  was  lived  out  when  you  left  there.  Re- 
turn and  try  to  take  it  up  again.  Try  to  enter  into 
those  old  sentiments  from  which  you  fled  and  you 
would  soon  wish  yourself  back." 

He  paused,  holding  her  eyes  magnetically  and  then 
continued :  "  Never  try  to  put  your  fingers  on  your 
past  —  shun  it.  The  only  way  to  attach  value  to 
your  past  is  to  let  it  alone.  It  is  only  a  delusion  that 
tries  to  enslave  you  in  order  to  cheat  you  out  of  your 
present.  The  past  is  consolation  to  but  one  thing  — 
failure!  Those  who  have  failed  may  attempt  to  live 
in  their  past!  You  have  not  failed  yet;  before  you, 
as  your  only  consideration,  lies  the  future !  " 

A  dark  flush  had  come  into  his  face  and  his  com- 
mand of  words  that  had  made  him  a  power  through 
his  pen,  now  burst  from  his  lips  and  began  to  pour 
like  a  deluge  in  her  ears. 

All  that  she  sacredly  reverenced  was  scoffed  at.  He 
laughed  at  Virginia.  She  was  above  and  beyond 
Virginia.  It  was  this  that  made  her  escape  to  find 
herself  thus  far  on  the  road  of  her  destiny.  The  time 
was  ripe  for  her  to  rejoice  in  herself  and  an  artist 
had  no  right  to  look  back.  If  she  did  she  was  bid- 
ding good-by  to  herself. 

Suddenly  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  Page  had  never 
listened  to  such  words  or  such  convincing  arguments 
as  continued  to  flow  in  torrents  from  this  suddenly 
impassioned,  but  hitherto  morose,  man.  Nor  had 
she  ever  seen  such  eyes  as  his  had  become!  Wicked 
eyes,  cruel,  fascinating,  compelling. 

"  Your  past   is  a  dream,"   she  heard   him   saying 


TEMPTATION  291 

finally,  "  only  a  dream!  Granted  that  the  life  here  — 
the  life  of  a  great  city  is  also  a  dream  —  the 
phantasmagoria  of  the  self  narcotized — >you  cannot 
so  easily  escape!  You  would  miss  it,  the  great 
kaleidoscopic  dream  would  haunt  you;  you  would 
miss  it  and  all  the  life  here!  You  would  miss  the 
noise  of  the  street-cars,  the  elevated,  all  the  sounds 
that  people  hate  yet  cling  to !  They  would  be  in  your 
ears  and  all  the  city's  blinding  lights  would  shine  day 
and  night,  night  and  day,  in  your  eyes!  You  would 
think  of  the  theaters,  the  restaurants,  this  place 
in  which  you  now  are,  and  — "  he  paused,  "  you 
would  think  of  me!  From  this  distance  and  under 
pressure  of  excitement  you  think  you  can  return  there. 
I  tell  you  that  you  cannot!  Your  past  is  a  beautiful 
poem  to  you,  beautiful  because  forever  beyond  your 
reach.  It  has  dared  to  intrude  itself  to-night  like  an 
old  song.  Try  to  spend  your  life  listening  to  old 
songs  and  they  would  fail  you!  Your  future  is  here 
in  my  hands !  " 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  his  words  seemed  to  have 
crystallized  into  golden  spheres  that  swung  about  her 
head  issuing  a  drowsy  incense. 

She  grew  dizzy  and  all  of  a  sudden  felt  the  charm 
of  the  life  he  had  described  take  possession  of  her. 
There  was  a  moment  of  absolute  weakness  when 
Dave,  home  and  all  the  things  she  held  sacred  slipped 
from  her.  She  saw  only  the  present  moment  and  the 
man  before  her,  his  eyes  aglow,  tempting  her  to  for- 
sake the  old  for  the  new. 

A  shudder  passed  over  Page  as  she  recognized  that 
a  passionate  lover  confronted  her. 

"  Mr.  Dalton,"  she  asked  timidly,  "  are  you  asking 
me  in  this  sudden  manner  to  be  your  wife?  " 


292       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"My  wife!"  Dalton  exclaimed.  "My  dear  girl, 
don't  you  know  that  I  am  married  ?  " 

"Married!" 

For  a  full  moment  they  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes. 
Then  Dalton  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  am  married,  yes.  I  thought  you  knew  it?  Ten 
years  ago  my  wife  and  I  separated  harmoniously. 
She  lives  in  Europe  where  our  children  are  being 
educated.  But  what  have  these  domestic  conditions 
to  do  with  you  and  me?  We  have  our  own  lives  to 
live!" 

"  Ah !  "  Page  gasped,  as  she  recoiled  from  him. 

They  stood  another  moment  in  silence  and  then 
she  approached  him  stealthily  and  looked  up  into  his 
face. 

"  Mr.  Dalton,"  she  breathed,  "  how  have  you 
dared?" 

"Dared  what?  To  offer  you  my  help?  My  in- 
terest in  your  work,  and,"  he  bent  his  face  to  hers, 
"my  love?" 

"  Love!  "  she  exclaimed,  springing  away  from  him, 
"  that  would  be  my  ruin !  I  know  now  why  the  Col- 
onel telegraphed  my  friend,  and  I  know  more  —  far 
more !  I  know  now  what  was  meant  by  the  danger  of 
my  coming  to  New  York  alone!  In  one  brief  instant, 
I  have  learned  what  it  is  for  a  girl  to  break  the  chains 
that  bound  her  to  conventions  and  attempt  to  stand 
alone.  And  — "  her  voice  was  a  scream,  "  you 
tempted  me  —  something  in  you,  to-night,  tempted 
me!  But  the  temptation  died  at  its  birth,  and  rather 
than  through  an  act  of  mine  bring  dishonor  on  myself 
and  on  my  sacred  state  and  those  who  love  me  there, 
I  would  cling  to  the  stake  and  be  burned  alive !  " 

"  You  play  your  part  well,  girl !  " 


TEMPTATION  293 

"  Part !  What  part  ?  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate 
that  I  knew  your  intention?  That  I  came  to  this 
place  knowing  it  —  with  my  eyes  open?  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  knew !  " 

"  My  God !  "  She  reeled  and  caught  at  the  edge  of 
the  table  but  released  it  and  steadied  herself. 

"  Of  course  you  knew,"  Dalton  repeated,  "  but 
you've  broken  down  —  you  haven't  the  courage  of 
your  convictions.  Come,  don't  be  silly.  Don't  sacri- 
fice your  future  to  a  few  old  sentiments,  the  same 
kind  that  sent  your  soldiers  —  heroes  you  called  them 
—  into  the  jaws  of  death  and  that  would  make  of 
you  a  slave!  That  kind  of  a  thing  is  following  a 
mirage  —  it's  all  a  myth.  /  offer  you  reality!" 

Aflame,  her  breast  heaving,  her  eyes,  in  which  all 
the  tenderness  was  lost,  in  a  blazing  fire,  she  faced 
him  like  a  savage  animal  at  bay. 

"  Mr.  Dalton,"  she  cried  out,  "  sentiment  may  have 
wrecked  us ;  there  may  be  no  such  thing  as  sentiment ! 
Love,  bravery,  courage,  even  honor,  may  be  myths, 
but  there  is  one  thing  in  this  life  that  is  not  a  myth, 
one  thing  and  one  alone  in  which  sentiment  does  not 
enter;  one  thing  which  man  or  woman,  with  or  with- 
out sentiment,  can  have  or  throw  away  —  his  or  her 
position  in  the  world!  You  want  to  keep  yours  and 
rob  me  of  mine !  Slavery !  Is  there  any  such  slavery 
as  you  offer  me,  a  prisoner  with  the  door  of  the  world 
shut  in  my  face !  Ostracism !  People  I  know  would 
pass  me  on  the  street  and  not  speak  to  me;  doors 
would  be  closed  upon  me!  If  one  I  loved  were  ill  - 
dying  —  I  could  not  be  by  the  bedside  —  the  dying 
would  turn  from  me !  " 

"  You're  excited,"  said  Dalton  calmly,  "  but,"  and 


294       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

the  wicked  light  shone  in  his  eyes,  "  may  I  add, 
superb?  Good-night.  I  will  see  you  to-morrow.  In 
the  meantime,  try  to  sleep,  get  your  composure 
and  —  "  he  paused,  "  your  reason." 

He  turned  from  her,  walked  leisurely  to  the  door, 
passed  out  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

For  a  moment  Page  stood  gazing  as  in  a  trance  on 
the  closed  door. 

Then  she  started,  her  form  grew  tense  and  her 
eyes  emitted  a  kind  of  radiance. 

"  Home !  "  she  breathed,  and  closed  them. 


BOOK  III 


BOOK  III 
CHAPTER  I 

VICTORY  PROCLAIMED 

THE  hours  of  inaction  over,  keyed  up  to  the  ex- 
tremest  point  of  exaltation,  fired  by  all  her  return  would 
mean  to  Dave,  and  with  the  fragile  face  of  her  Aunt 
Constance  shining  before  her,  the  following  morning 
Page  entered  the  train. 

As  it  began  to  move,  the  dramatic  instinct,  natural 
to  her,  became  aroused. 

"  Home !  Home !  "  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath, 
while  her  throat  closed  and  she  actually  saw  a  thou- 
sand pairs  of  hands  extended  to  her  in  greeting. 

Her  recent  past  seemed  to  fade  away  with  the  first 
turn  of  wheels  and  there  rose  before  her  a  curtain 
that  was  like  an  old  faded  tapestry  of  Virginia.  All 
the  family  portraits  passed  before  her  eyes;  all  the 
people  whom  she  had  known,  some  living,  some  long 
dead.  Suddenly  the  rose-bush  that  her  grandmother 
had  planted  burst  into  full  bloom,  and  beyond  it  she 
saw  armies  of  soldiers,  with  bayonets  flashing,  walk- 
ing straight  into  the  jaws  of  death  for  Virginia's 
honor. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  Dalton  was 
standing  before  her  and  her  entire  body  burnt  as 
though  she  was  being  consumed  by  shame. 

She  freed  herself  of  the  vision  and  as  the  train, 
now  at  full  speed,  rushed  homewards,  things  long 


298       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

forgotten,  dramatic  impressions  of  her  childhood,  be- 
gan to  take  shape  and  hold  her  attention. 

A  story  that  had  gripped  her  youthful  imagination 
sprang  to  her  mind.  It  was  the  story  of  a  young  de- 
serter. The  horrors  of  war,  the  explosion  of  can- 
non and  shell,  the  whizzing  of  bullets,  the  dead  and 
dying  lying  about;  the  dismembered;  the  smell  of 
blood ;  the  sight  of  blood,  had  appalled  this  youth  and 
he  had  fled  from  the  battleground,  in  the  dark  hours 
of  the  night,  and  kept  on  until  he  reached  a  strange 
city.  There  for  three  days  he  gave  himself  up  to 
riotous  living.  On  the  fourth  his  conscience  awoke, 
and  with  the  frenzy  of  a  madman  he  started  forth  to 
return  to  his  regiment.  On  the  way  he  was  met  by 
his  comrades  and  shot.  Oh!  If  her  fate  had  been 
this,  to  be  met  on  her  return  by  glances  of  scorn  that 
would  be  worse  than  pistols !  She  must  hurry  and  be 
back  in  her  camp,  don  her  uniform,  and  live  and  die 
by  her  colors. 

Her  face  betrayed  these  emotions,  her  hands  were 
a  bit  unsteady  in  performing  their  duties  for  the  or- 
dinary comfort  of  the  trip  and  her  eyes  shone. 

"  Dave !  Dave !  "  she  cried  under  her  breath  and 
choked  down  happy  tears. 

But  one  thing  stabbed  her  to  her  heart.  She  was 
returning  almost  empty-handed.  Her  money  had 
been  spent  and  on  herself!  The  fire  of  shame  again 
consumed  her  as  she  went  over,  in  self-abnegation, 
all  the  tales  of  poverty  and  distress  that  had  come  to 
her  during  her  absence  in  letters  or  the  newspapers. 
In  her  narcotized  condition  they  had  made  little  im- 
pression on  her;  been  accepted  simply  as  old  stories 
she  had  been  hearing  all  her  life;  now  the  true 
significance  of  them  appalled  her. 


VICTORY  PROCLAIMED  299 

A  certain  farmer's  cattle  had  all  perished  during 
the  winter,  which  had  been  a  severe  one,  of  hunger. 

Awful  descriptions  were  given  her  of  how  the  poor 
emaciated  things  were  raised  to  their  feet  with  the 
hope  that  they  could  stand  starving  until  the  grass 
came  up  out  of  the  earth.  Sheep,  from  not  being 
nourished,  froze;  horses,  with  barely  enough  food  to 
keep  them  alive,  were  kept  at  work.  The  thought 
of  these  poor,  suffering,  dumb  beasts  made  her  feel 
that  her  flesh  was  being  dragged  at.  Poverty,  pov- 
erty—  merciful  God,  and  she  had  spent  her  substance 
upon  herself!  There  were  other  tales  that  came  up. 
Children  had  needed  shoes,  men  had  needed  overcoats, 
women  had  to  remain  indoors  wrapped  in  old  shawls 
for  want  of  underwear. 

As  she  recalled  these  things,  she  saw  them  —  the 
little  ragged  feet,  the  men  without  overcoats,  tightly 
buttoned  up,  facing  the  wind.  The  women  shivering 
for  want  of  underwear. 

Exaggerating  her  own  selfishness  a  new  fear  as- 
sailed her  —  that  Dave  had  ceased  to  love  her! 

With  this  thought  the  stoppage  of  the  train  at 
stations  made  her  nervous.  She  wanted  to  see  Dave 
quickly,  wanted  him  to  know  of  her  return  and  of 
all  she  was  prepared  to  do !  She  went  over  their  scene 
in  the  flat  in  actual  terror  and  fancied  him  turning  to 
Nina  as  he  once  swore  he  would.  This  idea  mad- 
dened her  and  she  saw  Nina  as  a  shining  angel  and 
Dave  kneeling  at  her  feet. 

She  untied  the  veil  about  her  throat  and  threw  it 
back  to  breathe  freer. 

Presently  as  the  train  sped  along  through  spring 
visions,  the  whole  plan  of  woman's  life  seemed  re- 
vealed to  her.  It  lay  in  sacrifice  —  surrender  of  self. 


300       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

Her  mind  flew  to  a  hundred  Virginia  homes  and  in 
every  one  she  saw  the  plan  conformed  to.  Tired, 
patient  women,  unsupported  by  material  comforts, 
did  not  complain  and  beyond  the  sadness  or  sorrow 
there  rested,  also,  in  the  eyes  of  these  women,  the 
calm,  steady  light  of  content.  In  not  one  pair  could 
she  find  the  shadow  of  an  awful  fear  such  as  she  had 
seen  in  Mrs.  Wilton's  on  the  day  when  she  had  cried 
out  about  her  vanishing  youth.  And  strangest  of  all 
in  the  old  and  faded  eyes  the  light  shone  the  brightest. 
She  continued  to  look  on  all  these  Virginia  homes  in 
a  kind  of  bewildered  fascination. 

In  each  one  there  was  a  man  standing  guard  at  the 
portal.  Sometimes  it  was  a  husband,  sometimes  a 
brother,  but  always  a  man  for  the  woman  to  lean 
upon  —  put  her  burdens  on;  a  man  who  even  though 
wearied  unto  death  would  never  forsake  her,  always 
a  man  ready  to  go  to  his  death  in  her  protection,  or 
for  a  breath  of  slander  breathed  upon  her  name.  A 
man  to  work  for  her  till  he  dropped,  to  stand  by  her 
side  and  uphold  her  even  though  she  had  become  a 
thorn  in  his  side. 

The  thought  stirred  her  tremendously.  These  men 
were  heroes.  There  was  something  uplifting  and 
poetic  in  a  plan  of  existence  where  every  home,  no 
matter  how  lowly,  how  humble,  how  poverty-stricken, 
was  a  kingdom  with  a  king,  who  placed  his  queen  upon 
her  throne  and  saw  to  it  that  she  was  honored;  that 
no  harm  came  to  her;  no  word  of  disrespect,  either 
from  the  inmates  or  the  stranger  within  the  gate. 
Always  a  man  standing  between  her  and  these  things ; 
a  man  who  often  times  grew  blind,  year  by  year,  in 
worship,  so  that  when  old  age  came,  he  still  saw  his 
queen  as  a  youthful  maiden  to  whom  he  paid  boyish 


VICTORY  PROCLAIMED  301 

compliments  that  brought  to  the  old,  peace  —  to  the 
young,  hope. 

Page  knew  that  she  could  not  deny  these  facts;  she 
had  lived  in  them  all  her  life !  In  this  illumined  mo- 
ment it  seemed  to  her  God's  plan  that  could  no  more 
be  destroyed  than  the  rocks  of  the  mountain  or  the 
sands  of  the  ocean.  This  thought  of  nature  took  her, 
with  a  bound,  to  the  forest  where  the  wild  beasts 
obeyed  the  same  law.  She  saw  the  lioness  and  her 
young  peaceful  and  contented  in  the  lair,  while  the 
male  stood  guard  ready  to  give  up  his  life  in  their 
protection.  Dave  was  like  this  lion  waiting  to  stand 
guard  over  her  and  the  baby  that  would  lie  in  her 
arms.  She  half  lifted  her  left  arm,  crooked  her  el- 
bow, and  looked  down  with  her  fine  imagination  into 
a  miniature  face  of  Dave  and  a  little  head  covered  in 
silky  hair.  She  felt  a  choking  in  the  throat  and  a  low 
nervous  laugh  escape  her  and  caused  a  couple  op- 
posite to  glance  at  her. 

Then  the  train  rolled  into  Washington  and  some- 
thing happened  that  made  her  pale  and  leap  from  her 
seat  with  one  hand  pressed  breathlessly  to  her  heart. 

It  was  the  sharp  crying  of  a  little  army  of  news- 
boys —  a  triumphant,  shrill  yelling,  resembling  the  old 
rebel  shout  over  a  battle  won. 

Falling  over  one  another  they  flocked  to  the  win- 
dows of  the  coaches,  as  the  train  stopped,  and  began 
running  through  them. 

"Fielding  Peyton  cleared  of  murder!"  was  what 
she  heard  through  a  confused  brain. 

"  Fielding  Peyton  free !  David  Lee's  great  speech 
to  the  jury !  " 

This  message  screamed  into  her  ears,  this  reverber- 
ating yell,  coming  upon  her  mood  was  a  clarion  call  of 


302       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

encouragement  and  hope  —  inspiration  for  the  fu- 
ture! 

She  went  blind  a  moment,  and  pressed  her  palms 
to  her  eyes  to  restore  her  sight.  She  remained  thus, 
bewildered,  half-conscious,  trying  to  collect  herself. 

And  all  the  while  the  cries  of  the  boys  continued  to 
hammer  on  her  ears. 

"David  Lee's  great  speech  to  the  jury!"  Over 
and  over  these  words,  now  close,  now  at  a  distance, 
as  the  boys  fled  through  the  coaches. 

With  trembling  hands  she  found  and  opened  her 
purse,  and  handing  a  boy  a  dollar,  which,  to  his 
amazement,  he  was  told  to  keep,  she  made  her  pur- 
chase of  half  a  dozen  papers. 

The  train  started;  the  boys  were  running  away 
from  it.  She  seated  herself  and  opening  one  of  the 
papers  saw  the  big  headlines  that  had  been  echoed 
in  her  ears,  and  below  them  Dave  standing  erect,  head 
slightly  forward,  the  right  arm  tensely  held  aloft,  the 
fingers  of  his  hand  scattered. 

She  tried  to  read  but  her  excitement  increased,  she 
was  trembling  violently  and  could  only  hold  the  paper 
clutched  in  her  hand. 

She  stood  up  a  moment ;  she  wanted  to  declare  her- 
self —  tell  who  she  was,  and  that  she  was  on  her  way 
to  David  Lee! 


CHAPTER  II 

SILENT   REMINDERS 

WHEN  Page  stepped  from  the  brightly  lighted  par- 
lor-car it  was  ten  o'clock  and  the  blackness  that  en- 
veloped the  old  station  was  a  momentary  surprise. 

With  her  satchel  in  hand  and  trembling  slightly 
from  excitement  she  made  her  way  with  rapid  steps 
and  shining  eyes  to  a  high  gate  that  was  being  rolled 
aside. 

The  man  performing  this  duty  was  an  old  Con- 
federate soldier.  Page  wanted  to  drop  down  on  her 
knees  before  this  erect,  faded  figure  and  receive  his 
blessing.  But  with  a  half-smile  and  swift  tender 
glance  into  the  sad,  watery,  blue  eyes  she  passed  on. 

Another  tall,  gaunt  looking  man,  with  one  arm, 
was  in  the  baggage  department,  which  presented  it- 
self wide-open  to  her  left,  and  there  were  a  few  burly 
negroes  handling  trunks.  Page  heard  him  speaking 
kindly  to  these  negroes,  who  had  caused  the  loss  of 
his  arm,  and  it  seemed  very  beautiful  to  her.  Her 
eyes  also  rested  in  his  as  she  fled  past. 

When  she  reached  the  waiting-room  of  the  station 
she  noticed  an  eld  dilapidated  sewing-machine  in  the 
corner,  and  recalled  quickly  a  stout  woman  who  had 
care  of  the  ladies'  reception  room,  and  who  was  al- 
ways allowed  to  sew  between  train  times.  This 
woman  mothered  all  travelers,  and  little  children  and 
babies  often  rested  —  to  give  mothers  rest  —  on  that 
great  bosom.  It  sent  a  thrill  through  her.  She 

303 


304       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

paused  a  moment  in  the  center  of  the  room  looking 
about  her. 

A  party  of  people,  a  man  in  high  top-boots  that  were 
smeared  with  red  clay,  a  farmer  with  a  cadaverous 
wife,  seven  children,  one  a  baby  in  the  arms  of  a 
little  negress  of  about  eleven,  were  eating  from  a  bas- 
ket. She  saw  the  old  familiar  buttermilk  biscuits  and 
smelt  the  ham.  On  another  bench,  a  party  of  negroes 
in  grotesque  costumes  sat  very  erect;  some  sleeping, 
some  nodding,  some  staring.  These  people  were  wait- 
ing for  a  train  that  Page  remembered  was,  as  a  rule, 
two  or  three  hours  late. 

The  sight  of  them  made  her  feel  safe  and  happy. 
They  were  as  familiar  a  part  of  the  whole  she  was 
returning  to,  as  the  frame  houses  and  cabins  in  which 
they  lived  and  the  old  wood  piles  about  them.  She 
could  almost  see  this  farmer  hauling  wood  for  the 
winter;  the  oldest  boy  cutting  it  up  and  the  white 
chips  flying.  How  brave  and  sweet  these  simple 
lives  were!  She  passed  quickly  through  the  station 
to  the  sidewalk  surprised  to  find  how  warm  it  was  — 
the  difference  in  temperature  the  few  hours  on  the 
train  had  made.  It  was  already  summer  heat  here 
and  the  stars  shining  so  luminously  in  the  dark  pur- 
ple azure  were  yellow  as  gold. 

Other  familiar  sights  greeted  her.  Groups  of  ne- 
groes were  sitting  or  lying  about  the  pavements  or 
doorsteps  and  the  old  dingy  'buses  were  lined  along 
the  sidewalk  in  the  same  manner  that  she  had  seen 
them  all  her  life.  The  negro  drivers,  whip  in  hand, 
were  calling  out  the  names  of  the  hotels  they  repre- 
sented with  the  same  old  pride.  Page  heard  the  re- 
frain "  Exchange  and  Ballard  "  that  she  had  always 
heard  croaked  by  an  enormous  negro,  who  had  a  voice 


SILENT  REMINDERS  305 

like  a  frog.  His  name  was  Ephram,  and  in  her 
mind  Ephram  had  always  existed.  Two  men  got 
into  Ephram's  'bus  —  Ephram  was  always  the 
victor  —  and  he  mounted  the  box  and  drove  away  in 
triumph. 

All  the  other  'buses  followed  empty,  the  wheels 
making  a  terrific  noise  over  the  cobblestones.  Page 
listened  to  this  rattle  that  affected  her  like  a  familiar 
piece  of  music  suddenly  performed  for  her  benefit. 
She  felt  that  everything  was  for  her  benefit  as  she  en- 
tered an  old  hack  and  gave  the  driver  her  Cousin  Ed- 
mund's address. 

As  he  was  closing  the  door  he  peered  into  her  face. 

"  Ain't  dis  Miss  Page?  "  he  asked,  and  Page  recog- 
nized Sam. 

"  Why,  Sam!  "  she  cried  in  a  husky  voice,  as  she 
put  out  her  hand. 

"  How  you  do,  Miss  Page?" 

"  I'm  well,  Sam,  and  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you !  How 
is  everybody?  " 

"  Everybody  right  hearty,  Miss  Page !  Mr.  David 
been  goin'  erhade  powerful  heah  lately,  en  ter  day 
he  done  fair  sot  Richmond  crazy  —  he  done  save  Mr. 
Fieldin'!  He  done  sot  him  free!  Folks  say  when 
Mr.  Fieldin'  heard  it,  he  jess  staggered  up  to  Mr. 
David  and  fell  in  his  arms  callin'  out  Mother! 
Mother!  Mother!  Dey  say  how  he  been  fearin' 
powerful  how  if  he  got  sont  up  all  dem  women  folks 
at  home  mought  starve!  Mr.  David  brought  him 
home  wid'm  and  when  dey  done  got  through  supper 
he  tole  me  to  hitch  up  de  buggy  and  him  en  Mr. 
Fieldin'  started  off  fur  home." 

The  news  of  Dave's  absence  caused  a  momentary 
shock,  but  collecting  herself  she  said  eagerly :  "  Drive 


306       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

me  to  Cousin  Edmund's,  Sam,  and  tell  your  mother 
I'm  home  and  she  must  come  to  see  me!  " 

"  She  sure  be  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Page,"  answered 
Sam,  chuckling  as  he  closed  the  old  hack  door  with  a 
bang. 

As  the  ancient  vehicle  rolled  noisily  up  the  street, 
Page  found  herself  confronted  by  Dave's  absence  and 
like  an  avenging  pain  she  saw  Nina's  face  with  its 
radiant  charm.  She  swept  her  arms  across  her  eyes 
and  shut  it  out,  half -wildly  calling  upon  her  faith  in 
Dave.  Her  ecstasy  returned  and  in  the  cracking  of 
Sam's  whip,  the  noise  of  the  wheels  on  the  cobble- 
stones, and  the  jolting  of  the  carriage,  came  echoes  of 
the  past  that  turned  to  paeans  of  joy. 

Peering  out  she  peopled  the  deserted  sidewalks  with 
familiar  figures  and  entered  with  a  bound  the  dilapi- 
dated homes,  demanding  of  the  inmates  welcome. 
Several  times  her  eyes  filled  and  a  light  laugh  escaped 
her. 

The  languorous  heat,  the  silence,  the  dim  lights 
burning  in  the  halls,  the  red  ones  of  the  tiny  bar- 
rooms in  squalid  streets,  all  affected  her  dreamily. 

As  she  passed  a  tobacco  factory  the  fumes  of  the 
molasses-cured  tobacco  penetrated  her  nostrils  and 
made  her  almost  cry  out  with  sharp  recognition. 

"  Home!  Home!  "  she  cried  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  if  this  solitary  drive  did  not  end  quickly,  her 
emotions  would  bear  her  away  heavenwards,  before 
her  loved  ones  knew  of  her  return.  But  at  this  very 
moment  the  old  carriage  finally  came  to  a  stop.  A 
little  black  robed  figure  seated  on  the  top  step  of  the 
porch,  hearing  her  voice,  sprang  down  the  steps  to  the 
hack,  and  with  two  little  emaciated  arms  caught  her 
in  an  embrace  that  almost  crushed  her. 


SILENT  REMINDERS  307 

"  Page  !  Page !  Darling  Cousin  Page,  at  last,  at 
last !  "  cried  Emily,  and  their  meeting  was  as  of  the 
dead  who  have  suddenly  met  on  brighter  shores. 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  little  voice  again  as  they  stumbled 
up  the  steps,  "  how  I  have  needed  you." 

"  Emily!  Emily!  "  Page  cried,  dropping  her  satchel 
on  the  porch  and  facing  her,  "  you  have  needed  me ! 
Tell  me  that  again !  " 

"  I  have,  I  have,"  exclaimed  Emily,  "  God  has  an- 
swered my  prayer !  " 

They  fell  again  into  one  another's  arms,  and  then, 
the  rest  of  the  family  having  retired,  they  mounted 
the  steps  in  silence,  to  the  third  floor  where  Emily's 
room  was  dimly  lighted  by  an  old  lamp  that  was  out 
of  order;  the  little  rocker,  in  which  Page  sat,  was  al- 
most bottomless,  and  the  pale  colorless  old  three-ply 
carpet  was  worn  in  holes.  But  as  the  friar  sees  his 
bare  cell  furnished  in  splendor,  so  did  she  see  splendor 
in  these  old  things. 

Emily's  bed,  a  high  teester,  reached  by  ascending  a 
flight  of  mahogany  steps,  was  like  a  holy  altar  beside 
which,  humble  and  with  bowed  head  she  might  kneel 
to  say  her  prayers,  while  the  other  things,  old  unto 
death,  never  repaired,  or  replaced,  just  falling  or  stand- 
ing, were  grim  but  passionate  reminders  of  a  sacred 
past. 

In  the  center  of  this  old  room,  another  outburst  of 
emotion  on  the  part  of  the  two  girls,  another  embrace 
and  silence  fell  between  them. 

But  when  the  old  smoky  lamp  had  been  extinguished, 
however,  and  they  were  half -lost  in  the  great  bed, 
they  talked  a  long  while  in  low  hushed  voices  of  Page's 
return  and  of  all  the  things  dear  to  their  hearts. 

Page  learned  that  while  Emily's  mother  was  bear- 


308       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

ing  up  under  everything  bravely,  her  father  was  fail- 
ing in  health  and  no  longer  capable  of  leaving  the  house 
to  attend  to  business.  The  boys  were  at  work  but  she 
and  her  mother  were  thinking  of  taking  boarders. 
Aunt  Constance  having  grown  too  feeble  to  get  up 
in  the  morning,  Emily  took  her  breakfast  to  her  and 
Page  must  not  go  in  to  see  her  until  she  had  had  her 
coffee  and  been  prepared  by  Emily,  for  the  least  ex- 
citement prostrated  her.  Page  must  also  be  prepared 
for  a  change  in  Aunt  Constance's  appearance.  And 
then  after  a  long  silence  Emily  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  You  have  heard,  Page?  " 

"About  Fielding?  Yes,  I  got  the  papers  in  Wash- 
ington." 

Emily  was  silent  a  while  and  in  a  voice  tender  and 
full  of  awe,  she  called  softly,  "  Page ! " 

"Yes,  Emily?" 

"  They  say  that  Nina  is  going  to  die." 

"  Nina !  "  Page  exclaimed,  throwing  down  the  cov- 
ers violently  and  sitting  up. 

"  Yes,"  Emily  answered,  also  sitting  up,  "  Dr.  Mon- 
cure  told  mother." 

"  Don't,  Emily,  don't  tell  me!  It  can't  be!  Nina! 
No!  No!  I  tell  you  it  can't  be!  She  is  the  most 
alive  thing  on  earth !  "  She  burst  into  hysterical  sobs, 
wrapped  her  arms  about  her  knees  and  buried  her  face 
in  them. 

After  a  while  she  looked  up  and  her  expression 
alarmed  Emily.  "  I  tell  you,"  she  cried,  choking  her 
sobs,  "it  can't  be  —  not  Nina!" 

"  Page,"  Emily  answered,  "  the  Nina  you  knew  is 
already  dead.  It  was  the  shock,  they  say.  They  all 
stood  it  except  her  and  she  just  went  to  pieces  in  a 
perfectly  mad  way  all  in  a  day.  You  see,"  she  paused, 


SILENT  REMINDERS  309 

"  she  loved  Fielding  so !  She  came  to  see  us  about  a 
month  ago;  she  had  been  staying  at  Cousin  Hennie 
Eland's  and  going  to  the  prison  daily.  I  opened  the 
door  for  her  and  I  didn't  know  her  —  she  was  so  thin 
and  white,  her  beautiful  eyes  were  like  hollows,  she 
staggered  as  she  walked  —  I  had  to  lead  her  to  a 
seat." 

"  Don't,  Emily,"  whispered  Page,  "  be  quiet  —  I 
can't  stand  it !  " 

She  thought  of  Nina's  face  that  she  had  seen  while 
in  the  hack  and  again  put  her  arm  over  her  eyes  to 
shut  it  out. 

"  Emily !  "  she  cried  in  a  hushed  voice  a  moment 
later. 

"  Nina  will  not  die!  7  am  going  to  her!  I'm  go- 
ing to  nurse  her  and  get  her  well !  I  can  —  I  know 
I  can!  Thank  God  I'm  home  in  time!  " 

"  Can  you  think,  Page,"  said  the  small  tremulous 
voice  at  her  side,  "  what  all  this  has  been  to  me?  " 

Page  turned  suddenly  and  looked  at  her,  this  little 
figure  that  was  Emily's  ghost. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  come  into  my  arms,  you  poor  little 
thing!" 

As  Emily  sprang  forward  and  clung  to  her,  Page 
fell  to  sobbing  again,  quietly  this  time,  while  trying 
to  pour  some  comfort  into  this  little  creature  scarcely 
more  than  a  child,  who  was  bearing  the  burden  of  a 
great  tragedy  —  a  tragedy  of  her  times. 

After  a  while  they  lay  down  in  silence  and  Emily, 
tired  with  the  day's  duties,  comforted  by  the  return 
and  presence  of  Page,  fell  asleep. 

But  Page  could  not  sleep.  All  night  she  lay  awake 
in  the  great  bed  which  became  finally  like  a  ship  bear- 
ing her  along  on  placid  waters. 


310       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

At  five  o'clock  she  heard  an  alarm  clock;  later  the 
quiet  opening  and  closing'  of  the  front  door.  She 
stole  out  of  the  bed  and  went  to  the  window.  A 
slight  young  form,  that  she  dimly  recognized  as  Robert, 
the  youngest  son  in  the  family,  appeared  and  then 
disappeared,  half  walking,  half  flying  around  the  cor- 
ner. On  this  vanishing  form,  starting  forth  at  break 
of  day,  Page  had  no  doubt  the  family  greatly  relied 
for  food.  And  all  through  the  city  this  was  so  while 
women  slept! 

One  brief  thought  of  Dalton  caused  a  shudder  to 
pass  through  her  and  she  hastened  back  to  the  side  of 
the  bed.  There  she  stood  for  several  moments  look- 
ing upon  the  wasted  features  of  Emily,  framed  in  a 
wealth  of  scintillating  hair  that  alone  persisted  in  pro- 
claiming her  youth. 

"  And  all  the  while,"  she  breathed,  while  the  tears 
choked  her,  "  she  was  needing  me !  " 

Stealing  softly  into  bed  she  slept. 


CHAPTER  III 

INTO  THE  FOLD 

RECALLING  the  happenings  of  the  next  morning, 
the  exclamations  of  joy,  the  glad  ring  in  the  voices, 
the  tears  and  smiles  and  embraces,  it  seemed  to  Page 
that  a  religious  ceremony  had  been  enacted,  through 
which  she,  the  strayed  sheep,  was  welcomed  to  the 
fold. 

Sam  had  already  spread  the  news  of  her  return  and 
the  children  had  also  been  sent  hither  and  thither,  one 
of  course  to  Cousin  Betty,  with  messages. 

True  to  her  word,  Emily  prepared  Aunt  Constance 
and  not  only  did  she  prepare  her  but  she  dressed  her 
for  the  occasion  putting  a  white  rose  under  her  cameo 
breastpin. 

\Yhen  Page  entered  the  room  and  saw  her  thus, 
fragile  and  pure  as  the  rose  she  wore  in  her  honor, 
seated  in  a  large  armchair,  her  slender  hands  ecstatic- 
ally clasped,  her  famished,  eager  eyes  lit  up  in  rapture, 
her  whole  face  shining  with  celestial  light,  she  ran 
forward  with  a  cry,  and  fell  on  her  knees  at  her  feet. 

And  when  that  meeting,  which  Emily  arranged  to 
take  place  alone,  was  over  and  they  all  crowded  in, 
Cousin  Betty  embracing  Page  and  scolding  her  in  a 
breath,  Cousin  Mary  smiling  like  a  madonna,  the  chil- 
dren with  flowers,  culled  from  their  own  little  patches 
of  earth,  in  their  hands,  even  Emily  with  a  tinge  of 
color  in  her  pale  cheeks,  Page  felt  like  almost  cry- 

311 


312       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

ing  aloud,  "  Joy  over  the  sinner  that  repenteth,"  for 
she  felt  that  that  was  what  she  was. 

The  day  passed  like  a  festival,  the  life  in  the  house- 
hold continuing  each  moment  to  gladden  and  soften 
her  contrite  heart. 

With  what  love  and  reverence  the  children  had 
kissed  their  parents  before  breakfasting;  how  adored 
the  mother  was  by  the  two  boys  who  went  out  day 
after  day  to  tasks  beyond  their  strength  for  her  sake. 
With  what  suppressed  tears  she  kissed  the  blackened 
hands  of  her  brakeman  boy;  how  tenderly  she  had 
put  his  dinner  aside  for  him  and  when  evening  came 
fixed  —  he  was  the  studious  one  —  the  lamp  and  book 
in  his  corner  that  he  might  have  a  few  hours'  rest  and 
happiness  before  going  out  to  his  duties.  And  how 
she  ministered;  to  the  feeble,  ailing  husband,  whose 
usefulness  was  over,  kneeling  at  his  feet  when  she 
took  him  his  food  and  looking  up  adoringly  into  the 
poor,  blank,  failing  countenance.  And  Emily,  her 
blighted  one!  Oh!  The  embraces  between  these 
two  —  the  understanding ! 

These  people,  who  were  in  no  way  remarkable, 
grew  remarkable :  she  gazed  on  them  in  awe  and  took 
their  tenderness  towards  herself  humbly.  And  the 
next  door  it  was  the  same  and  the  next,  and  so  on 
through  all  the  streets  it  was  the  same.  Love  was  the 
keynote;  it  was  the  cementation  of  love  that  kept  the 
very  breath  in  peoples'  bodies.  And  even  the  lowliest 
received  some  kind  of  tenderness  —  and  not  one  was 
deemed  as  of  no  importance.  The  oldest,  poorest 
man,  or  woman,  down  to  the  youngest,  poorest  child, 
was  loved  and  cared  for  by  someone.  The  idiot  boy, 
who  lived  a  few  blocks  away  and  struck  his  mother  in 
the  face  when  she  ministered  to  him,  was  loved  by  the 


INTO  THE  FOLD  313 

mother  who  blamed  herself  that  the  stress  and  anxiety 
under  which  she  had  labored  during  the  war,  when 
she  was  carrying  him,  was  the  cause  of  his  blighted 
life.  This  mother  wept  over  this  son,  who  had  a 
strange  vacuous  laugh,  and  always  struck  at  her,  and 
she  was  tender  to  him.  There  was  no  one  who  was 
not  loved  by  someone!  She  could  not  find  one  per- 
son who  lived  entirely  for  self  or  whose  life  was  not 
a  brave  struggle,  not  only  for  self  but  for  each  other. 
She  saw  meals  being  exchanged,  trays  sent  about  from 
one  house  to  the  other,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  no 
one  was  interested,  even  in  his  own  food,  unless  par- 
taken of  by  another. 

If  only  Dave  were  not  away!  If  only  he  were  here 
that  she  could  tell  him  all  that  was  in  her  heart.  Per- 
haps that  would  be  too  much  joy,  so  she  must  be  pa- 
tient and  wait  while  Dave  performed  his  part  for 
others. 

The  thought  of  Nina  alone  disturbed  her,  but  even 
in  that  thought  lay  a  new-found  duty. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  she  felt  the  de- 
sire to  walk  past  old  familiar  places,  to  see  if  certain 
bushes,  that  she  remembered,  had  flowered;  if  the 
trees  had  the  same  appearance;  if  the  sun  cast  the  same 
shadows. 

So  she  stole  out  alone. 

It  was  impossible,  however,  to  avoid  encounters  and 
every  few  blocks  a  new  greeting,  from  both  white 
and  black,  awaited  her.  "  Back  to  God's  own  coun- 
try! Knew  you  couldn't  stand  it  there!  "  or  "  'Fore 
Gaud,  if  dar  ain't  Miss  Page!"  were  glad  sentences 
that  rang  in  her  ears,  keeping  the  light  in  her  eyes  and 
the  smile  on  her  lips. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  city  she  passed  a  beautiful 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

old  yard,  where  the  children  were  crowning  their 
queen  of  May. 

The  sky  was  so  blue,  the  grass  and  trees  were  so 
green  that  the  dome  of  the  world  looked  like  a  sus- 
pended turquoise  and  its  base  a  glittering  emerald. 
The  sun  flicking  through  the  trees  to  the  ground  was 
like  fallen  topazes. 

In  the  distance  a  rough  throne  had  been  built  but 
the  crude  work  was  hidden  beneath  flowers  so  that  it 
was  a  floral  throne.  Groups  of  children  in  gauzy  ap- 
parel, covered  in  tiny  gold  and  silver  paper  designs 
and  carrying  flowers,  looked  like  little  fairies.  And 
nothing  that  Page  had  ever  seen  seemed  so  beautiful 
as  this  simple  spectacle.  She  walked  on.  How  sweet 
it  had  all  been !  And  some  of  the  faces  of  the  mothers 
as  their  own  children  or  child  appeared!  She  would 
never  forget  them  nor  how  the  sun  shone.  It  seemed 
to  pour  down  through  the  trees  like  wine  and  the  fit- 
ful breeze  touched  one  like  light  feathers. 

Suddenly  as  she  moved  away  a  message,  as  though 
straight  from  heaven,  came  to  her.  To  live  here  in 
peace  she  must  put  aside  all  thought  of  self  and  be- 
come as  one  of  those  little  children,  each  one  bearing 
a  flower  to  make  a  perfect  whole ! 

A  kind  of  passion-drama  unrolled  and  many  beauti- 
ful scenes  passed  before  her  eyes  as  she  walked  along 
beneath  the  pale  green  trees  that  fantastically  shaded 
the  sidewalks.  At  last  she  fancied  she  saw  ahead  of 
her  a  perpendicular  hill  up  which  an  army  of  people, 
men  and  women  and  children,  were  all  climbing.  She 
noticed  that  many  were  old  and  feeble  and  wore  ragged 
clothing;  that  some  were  crippled,  and  that  others 
were  carrying  heavy  burdens.  But  no  matter  how  old 
or  feeble  or  lame,  or  how  heavy  the  burden,  not  one 


INTO  THE  FOLD  315 

hesitated  to  take  his  place  with  the  rest.  She  looked 
up  this  steep  hill,  her  eyes  following  this  crippled  army 
into  a  land  of  glory,  and  with  a  suppressed  cry  herself 
fell  in  line. 

She  was  so  happy  then  that  all  things  took  new 
form  and  color  in  her  brain.  That  which  had  dis- 
tressed and  caused  her  to  flee,  now  held  her  captive. 

The  wounds  and  disfigurements  of  the  old  soldiers 
that  used  to  shock  her  were  now  the  concrete  mani- 
festations of  patriotic  ardor,  heroism,  self-denial, 
magnanimity,  patience,  saintliness  —  all  the  virtues 
that  would  one  day  entitle  them  to  the  world's 
apotheosis.  The  starving  cattle  of  the  winter  before 
now  seemed  to  her  like  a  sacrificial  offering  to  God 
on  an  altar  made  sacred  by  the  precious  blood  of  count- 
less human  lives.  The  coarse  clothing  worn  by  the 
men  shone  in  her  eyes  —  the  wailings  of  her  people 
were  glad  paeans. 

New  York  with  all  its  wealth,  splendor,  and  magnifi- 
cence, all  its  untold  power,  came  up,  and  with  beating 
heart  she  pitied  New  York.  It  was  blind  and  dumb  in 
all  its  splendor,  a  great  palpitating  soulless  monster 
from  which  she  had  escaped.  She  thanked  God  with 
clasped  hands  and  uplifted  eyes  that  she  had  escaped; 
that  in  spite  of  all  she  had  been  through  she  had  re- 
turned, unscathed,  and  could  still  hear  the  silent 
voices  of  things,  catch  the  after-glow  —  the  violet 
tints. 

Suddenly  she  discovered  that  she  had  left  the  city's 
limits.  This  did  not  deter  her  and  she  went  on,  try- 
ing, however,  to  reduce  her  pace  by  assuring  herself 
that  there  was  no  cause  for  her  to  feel  excited  about 
anything.  But  her  highly  sensitive  condition  refused 
to  be  appeased  and  her  thoughts  continued  inflamed. 


316       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

The  brooks  she  passed  flowed  over  golden  pebbles,  the 
hills  were  monuments  of  emeralds !  An  old  home  de- 
serted and  in  ruins  surrounded  by  a  rotting  fence 
blinded  her  with  tears. 

There  was  scarcely  a  trace  of  cultivated  land,  but 
the  sunlight  over  all  made  even  barrenness  beautiful. 
She  looked  about  her  inquiringly.  Somewhere  near- 
by honeysuckle  must  be  already  in  bloom.  How  in- 
tensely sweet  it  was!  Flowers  and  vines  and  weeds 
held  high  carnival.  Joyously  demoralized,  they  flour- 
ished in  rapturous  abandonment,  wrapping  themselves 
about  trees  and  fences  and  old  benches  and  discarded 
cooking  utensils,  laughing  and  reveling  in  their  riot- 
ous disorder. 

The  light  over  the  land  was  the  reflection  of  her 
own  soul,  so  that  the  earth  seemed  rejoicing  for  her. 
Everywhere  it  was  bursting  to  give  forth  to  her  eyes 
beautiful  colors,  to  her  nostrils,  sweet  odors.  A 
mocking-bird  broke  into  song  and  she  stood  and  lis- 
tened, allowing  the  melody  to  pervade  her.  Never  had 
she  heard  so  beautiful  a  sound. 

When  silence  came  she  walked  on  again  bathed  now 
in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  For  a  moment,  in 
the  fierce  glare  of  the  Western  sky  she  seemed  to  see 
New  York  again  glittering,  and  Dalton  with  the  sneer 
on  his  face  beckoning  to  her.  But  immediately  the 
scene  changed  and  she  saw  only  what  was  about  her. 

Presently  she  reached  a  clump  of  pines  and  stepped 
inside  and  stood  on  the  carpet  of  brown  pine-tags  still 
watching  the  setting  sun. 

What  a  chirping  of  birds  there  was  —  a  regular 
orchestra.  She  listened,  hoping  she  would  hear 
another  mocking-bird.  But  none  came  and  the  sounds 
of  so  many  was  confused,  a  kind  of  twittering,  with 


INTO  THE  FOLD  317 

an  occasional  clear  note,  and  even  those  sounds  were 
growing  fainter  — some  dying  away.  All  the  while 
the  sun  continued  to  set  in  splendid  colors.  It  was 
like  being  a  little  girl  again  to  stand  there  watching  it. 

The  night  came  slowly;  the  sky  changing  very 
gradually  from  a  bright  gold  to  a  violet  gray  that  cast 
a  light,  monotonous  and  melancholy,  over  the  bare 
immovable  fields.  Beyond  one  of  these  fields,  to  her 
right,  a  road  ran  and  Page  saw  a  wagon  appear  upon 
it  and  move  slowly  along  like  a  shadow.  She 
watched  until  it  disappeared. 

After  that  it  grew  dark  more  quickly  so  that  soon 
only  things  very  near  her  were  distinguishable.  The 
tops  of  the  pine  trees  that  had  been  so  green  were  now 
quite  black;  the  odors  had  become  saturated  with 
dampness  and  there  was  not  even  the  twitter  of  a  bird, 
only  a  drowsy  chanting  of  the  insects  that  had  all 
awakened  to  the  night.  At  last  a  full  moon  pale  and 
chaste  came  lazily  in  sight.  It  rose  slowly  above  the 
fields  and  flooded  them  with  a  pallor  that  was  like 
a  fall  of  snow. 

"  How  beautiful !  "  she  murmured  in  a  rapt  voice. 

As  though  to  give  her  answer,  a  sudden  warmth  en- 
veloped her;  a  hot  wind  had  arrived  from  somewhere. 
It  was  like  a  passionate  embrace  and  Page  responded 
to  it,  melting  as  though  in  a  lover's  arms.  She  be- 
came charged  with  a  great  love  for  this  familiar 
warmth  and  for  the  earth  upon  which  she  stood  — 
the  soil  of  Virginia.  The  heat  comforted  her  and  the 
earth  began  to  draw  her  to  its  breast  until  finally,  be- 
neath the  pines,  with  their  black  plumes  spread  above 
her,  she  lay  prone  upon  it,  her  arms  outstretched,  her 
cheek  pressed  hard.  Never  had  such  a  passion  con- 
sumed her,  and  for  a  long  while  she  lay  thus,  breath- 


3i8       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

ing  her  being  into  the  warm,  fragrant,  responsive  soil. 
At  last  she  rose  slowly,  feeling  herself  forgiven  for 
her  desertion. 

She  walked  hurriedly  out  as  though  service  in  some 
great  cathedral  were  ended.  For  quite  a  while  she 
stepped  quickly,  slightly  alarmed  at  the  darkness  that 
now  surrounded  her,  and  watching  ahead  of  her  for 
the  lights  of  the  city. 

When  she  had  climbed  a  small  hill  they  came  in 
sight,  and  walking  a  little  further  on  she  reached  a 
horse-car  track.  Here  she  waited  what  seemed  to  her 
an  endless  time,  but  at  last  she  was  riding  along  with 
an  old  colored  man,  the  only  other  occupant. 

When  she  reached  home  Emily  ran  out  to  meet  her. 
"Where  have  you  been?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 
"  We've  sent  everywhere  for  you !  Dave  has  been 
waiting  two  hours !  " 

"  Dave  ?  "  asked  Page  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes.     He  is  in  the  parlor." 


CHAPTER  IV 

LOVE 

PAGE  moved  swiftly  by  Emily,  entered  the  house 
and  took  her  stand  in  the  doorway  of  the  parlor. 

The  dimensions  of  the  old  room  were  so  large,  the 
furniture  so  massive  and  gloomy,  that  she  could 
scarcely  see  by  the  faint  lamplight  in  one  corner.  For 
a  moment  her  eyes  strayed  about  and  then  she  dis- 
covered Dave  seated  in  a  large  chair,  his  slouch  hat 
on  the  floor  beside  it.  At  her  entrance  he  rose  but 
paused  in  his  advance.  She  sprang  to  him  with  a 
swift  movement. 

"  Dave!  "  she  cried  and  put  out  her  hands. 

He  did  not  take  them  and  with  a  quick  backward 
step  Page  stood  gazing  upon  him. 

His  head  was  arrogantly  lifted,  the  light  in  his  eyes 
had  expired,  and  he  had  clasped  his  hands  behind  him. 

She  noted  in  a  flash  that  he  was  greatly  changed. 
All  boyishness  had  fled  from  him;  he  had  grown 
old  and  his  face  was  grim.  Stonewall  Jackson  might 
have  assumed  this  attitude  and  looked  thus  when  con- 
fronted by  a  deserter. 

"  So  you  are  back,"  he  said  finally  in  a  low  quiet 
voice,  "what  brought  you?" 

"What  brought  me?" 

He  took  a  step  forward.  "Yes,  what  brought 
you?" 

She  advanced  to  him  and  peered  up  timidly  into  his 

face. 

319 


320       THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

"  You  brought  me,  Dave  —  I  came  home,  I  came 
back  to  you !  " 

"  You  may  have  made  a  mistake." 

She  recoiled.  "  A  mistake  ?  Aren't  you  glad  I 
came?  What  do  you  mean?  "  Her  voice  lowered  to 
a  whisper.  "  Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  want  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  mean  that  I  do  not  know  whether  I  can  in- 
sult my  manhood  by  indulging  that  want !  " 

"  Ah !  "  The  word  escaped  her  and  she  fell  back 
from  him  with  her  hand  over  her  heart. 

He  approached  her  and  fixed  his  scrutinizing  eyes 
upon  her. 

"  You  say  that  you  have  returned  to  me.  Which 
you,  for  there  are  two?  How  do  I  know  that  I  care 
to  shoulder  the  you  that  I  despise  for  the  sake  of  the 
you  that  I  have  always  adored  ?  How  do  I  know  that 
that  you  has  not  perished  in  the  other?  How? 
Tell  me!" 

The  cold  eyes  flashed  a  brief  second. 

"  How  do  I  know  that  you  had  the  right  to  re- 
turn? How  do  I  know  that  you  should  be  protected 
by  this  sacred  old  roof?  How?" 

The  full  meaning  of  his  words  penetrated  her.  She 
winced,  drew  back  from  him,  and  lost  her  breath  for 
a  second.  When  she  caught  it  the  sound  was  audible. 
She  tried  to  speak  but  words  failed  her. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  she  took  a  deep  breath,  flung 
up  her  head  and  stood  looking  at  him,  her  whole  man- 
ner expressing  triumph. 

He  gazed  back  at  her  amazed  by  an  attitude  that 
failed  to  carry  to  him  its  meaning.  Then  he  burst 
forth  again: 

"  When  I  heard  to-day  you  were  here  I  believe  I 
went  mad!  Sam  told  me.  I  was  in  the  street  on 


LOVE  321 

my  way  home,  not  even  caring  to  go  there,  sick  at 
heart,  tired  unto  death.  It  staggered  me  —  I  believe 
I  put  out  my  arms  to  him  —  I  felt  him  holding  me  up ! 
Then  I  broke  away  from  him  and  turned  and  came 
here,  running,  stumbling,  half-blind.  I  forgot  every- 
thing in  one  thought  —  you  had  come  back!  But 
seated  here  for  two  whole  hours  alone  in  this  silent 
gloom,  I  had  time  to  think,  and  in  my  thoughts  my 
doubt  of  you  stole  back;  the  blackest  doubt  that  can 
darken  the  brain  of  a  man  when  he  loves  a  woman! 
I  doubted  you!  Can  you  think  what  that  meant! 
Can  you  understand  that  suffering?  Answer  me!" 

A  smile  crossed  her  lips  but  she  was  still  speechless 
and  he  went  OIL 

"Ah!  How  I  have  suffered  since  that  night  in 
Xew  York  —  that  night  of  Hell!  Though  every 
doubt  of  you  perish  as  an  injustice;  though  years 
might  pass  with  you  safe  by  my  side  during  the  day, 
pillowed  on  my  breast  at  night,  I  never  could  think  of 
it  without  a  shudder  —  a  shrinking  of  my  entire  being 
—  for  not  only  did  I  feel  that  you  were  lost  to  me 
but  to  yourself  — to  everything!  I  saw  you  walk- 
ing straight  along  into  perdition  where  every  hour  of 
your  life,  after  the  first  glamour  had  passed,  would  be 
a  blistering  pain!  You!  My  love!  And  I  went 
through  all  this  misery  knowing  that  I  could  not  inter- 
fere—  that  only  you  could  save  yourself  and  that 
through  a  higher  p'ower  than  mine!  I  believe  I  spent 
the  entire  night  on  the  train  in  prayer,  to  what  or  to 
whom  I  did  not  exactly  know  — to  God,  of  course, 
but  you  seemed  so  far  away  from  God  —  to  the  heav- 
ens, the  stars,  the  winds,  the  clouds,  your  own  heart 
the  moon,  the  sun,  the  forests,  all  the  things  that  you 
loved  and  were  turning  away  from.  I  prayed  madly. 


322        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  REBEL 

I  believe,  to  all  these  things,  your  things,  and  God, 
and  they  and  your  heart  must  have  heard  my  prayers ! 
But  how  do  I  know  it  was  worth  while  ?  " 

He  paused  again  and  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her, 
intently  fixed  as  one  watches  an  acrobat  daringly 
poised  and  who  may  any  moment  fall  headlong  to 
death. 

Then  she  laughed,  the  glad,  merry  laugh  that  he  re- 
membered used  to  sound  over  the  hills  and  through 
the  forests  in  her  childhood. 

"  Dave,"  she  cried,  "  look  into  my  eyes !  " 

He  was  baffled;  her  manner  staggered  him,  but  he 
recovered  himself  and  laughed  back  at  her  a  different 
laugh  from  hers,  still  with  a  ring  of  doubt  and  insolent 
scorn  in  it. 

"  Look  into  your  eyes !  A  woman's  eyes  may  be 
but  two  shining  lies !  Do  you  remember  where  and 
how  I  last  looked  into  them?  " 

She  caught  his  arm. 

"Dave!  I  repeat!  Look  into  my  eyes.  Look! 
Look  deep,  deep,  deep!  See  if  in  their  depths  you  can 
find  any  guilt !  " 

She  sprang  back  and  faced  him  jubilantly.  "  Ah ! 
Yon  have  a  right  to  doubt  me,  I  know  that!  '  But  in 
my  joy  I  had  forgotten  it!  Make  me  suffer  for  that 
doubt!  Give  me  pain;  twist  my  wrists,"  she  flung 
out  her  hands,  "  until  I  cry  out ;  speak  brutal  words 
that  shock  all  my  being;  blind  me  with  tears ;  make  me 
fall  on  my  knees  before  you!  Then  lift  me  up,"  her 
laugh  rang  out  again,  "  look  into  my  eyes  and  read  the 
truth !  I  am  back  and  no  words  of  yours  —  no  tor- 
ture, can  take  away  my  peace !  I  am  glad  that  I  went 
away  to  know  this  joy!  Glad  I  was  insulted  —  I  was 
insulted  —  but  through  that  insult  I  saw  you  as  you  are 


LOVE  323 

and  all  the  things  you  had  tried  to  make  me  see !  Can 
you  regret  those  months  of  darkness  that  unveiled  the 
light?  Can  you  regret  those  hours  you  spent  in 
prayer  for  me?  Prayers  when  I  was  in  danger, 
prayers  to  heaven  and  my  heart  and  all  the  things  I 
loved?  I  don't!  Those  prayers  were  heard  and  I 
was  safe.  I  am  back !  I  am  home !  The  banners  you 
told  me  of  have  all  waved  in  my  eyes  to-day!  I  saw 
the  words  on  them  —  Courage !  Bravery !  Honor ! 
And  I  saw  another  one  and  the  word  on  it  was  Love! 
All  day  I  have  been  seeing  that  word  and  it  meant 
life,  new  life  for  me  —  happy  life!  I  am  so  happy 
that  your  words  of  accusation  fall  on  deaf  ears!  If 
you  could  see  me  as  I  am  I  would  appear  to  you  as  a 
woman  on  fire !  I  am  on  fire  with  love !  I  love  every- 
body! I  love  myself  —  I  love  you!  I  love  Nina! 
I'm  going  to  her!  I'm  going  to  get  her  well!  I  can 
—  I  know  I  can !  " 

"  Page !  "  Dave  breathed,  gazing  aghast  into  her 
transfigured  countenance. 

"Yes,  Dave!" 

"  Answer  me !  Is  this  all  true,  or  is  it  another  of 
your  dreams?  Speak!" 

He  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  in  hers  and  her  hands 
fastened  convulsively  at  the  back  of  his  neck. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  whispered,  "but  if  it  is  a 
dream  make  it  for  me  an  everlasting  one !  " 

His  arms  encircled  her;  his  lips  met  hers,  and  her 
soul  reached  high  tide. 


THE    END 


A     000129118     6 


